  Ulysses turned restlessly upon his couch, when suddenly his divine friend Athene stood beside him, asking gently: “Why is thine heart so heavy? Surely thou canst trust the goddess who has protected thee in all dangers? If fifty companies of suitors fought against thee, thou shouldst lightly overcome them all. Sleep, for the goddess bids thee hope.” He slept, but before dawn heart-rending sobs and cries awakened him. It was Penelope’s voice, weeping and crying out Ulysses’ name a hundred times. A vivid dream had roused her: Ulysses in full armor lay beside her. Now was her rest gone and her tears flowed afresh. The heart of the valiant Ulysses was ready to break. He arose. It was dark and the stars were shining. He went to the window, and raising his hands, prayed: “Father Jupiter, if thou art gracious to me, grant me now a sign, that I may have faith.” And listen! A long peal of thunder echoed from the eastern sky, and at the same moment he heard the servant who was grinding corn say to herself: “Holy Father Jupiter, thou thunderest loudly, though the heavens are clear and starry! It must be that thou givest a sign. Oh, that thou wouldst hear my prayer, that this might be the last night on which I shall toil for the miserable suitors, who devour by day with laughter what we poor slaves must prepare in the sweat of our brows during the night. Oh, that they might all die and this be their last banquet!” When Ulysses heard this his courage suddenly rose. He paced the great hall, turning over plans in his mind and awaiting morning impatiently. When it came, everyone about the house was busy. Telemachus went to the market place and Euryclea called the maids together to plan their work for them. “For,” said she, “the suitors will assemble early to-day to celebrate the feast of the new moon.” The swineherd came in early, driving his contribution for the day—three fat pigs—and he at once sought the stranger from Crete. Ulysses went to meet him and pressed his hand kindly. “How dost thou fare? Dost stand in better repute with the company?” “Oh, that the gods might destroy them for all the grievous mischief which they hourly commit,” replied Ulysses. The goatherd Melantheus now came along and could not pass the stranger without threatening and insulting him. Next came Philoetius, a master-herdsman. He, too, like good EumÆus, hated the suitors at heart and would long ago have gone away had not love for Ulysses’ house detained him, and a fear lest the herds might fall into bad hands. He saw the beggar standing in the courtyard, and going to the swineherd he asked him softly: “Good EumÆus, who is the strange man there? He appears like a king, although bowed down by misery.” Speaking thus, he approached Ulysses, offering his hand and speaking cordial words to him. While they were talking together, the suitors, who had assembled as usual in the market place, were making new plots against the life of Telemachus, whose bold tongue was becoming daily more threatening. Amphinomus tried to dissuade them, and for the present they agreed to let him go. The noisy crew now stormed into the palace. In the hall each laid aside his mantle. Then they offered up fat goats, young lambs, and fatted boars and beeves; others mixed the wine. While they were eating Telemachus placed a table for the old man at the door and gave him food and drink. In the midst of their sport the suitors could scarcely curb their insolence. A young fellow, son of a rich father in Same, now called out loudly to the company: “Listen, ye generous suitors, the stranger at the door has indeed had his portion of the feast, but I shall now present him with a special gift. He may give it to the maid who prepared his bath or any of the servants. See this splendid bull’s hoof. May it agree with him!” He threw it swiftly at Ulysses’ head, who jumped aside and avoided it cleverly. The suitors roared with laughter, in which Ulysses joined while nursing rage in his heart. Telemachus sprang up like a flame, crying angrily: “It is fortunate for thee, Ktesippus, that thou didst not strike the stranger, or I should have pierced thee with my lance, that thy father might have celebrated thy burial feast instead of thy wedding. And I advise no one to try anything more of that kind, for I will not permit it. That you consume my flocks and herds is bad enough, and ye may even murder me, as ye design—do so! I would rather die than see strangers abused in my house! Even my noble mother’s maidens have ye not spared!” All were silent until Agelaus began: “Friends, I am glad that ye do not reply, for Telemachus is not entirely wrong. But I should like to give thee some advice, Telemachus. Now that thou art grown and able to manage thy house, thou shouldst speak with thy mother and urge her to proceed to the choice of a husband as soon as possible, for there is certainly no longer any hope that thy father will return. When she has left thy house thou canst enjoy thy substance in peace, and none of us will further disturb thee in the possession of thy herds and acres.” “Now, by Jupiter,” replied Telemachus, “I do not prevent my mother’s choice. She may take whom she will. But far be it from me to drive my mother from the house by any hasty word or to compel her to a choice!” Athene touched the suitors with madness. They laughed until their faces were distorted, while Ulysses, Telemachus, and the servants looked on with horror. But Theoclymenus, the stranger seer from Pylos, cried aloud as in an ecstasy of prophecy: “Unhappy men, what has come over you? Your eyes are veiled, your heads are bruised, and your cheeks wet with unnatural tears. Ha, I see blood! It drips from the walls! It stands in pools! The courtyard is full of shadows, hastening out into the darkness of the spirit land. The sun is extinguished—a horrible darkness reigneth!” The wild laughter arose once more. The suitors only grew noisier in their rash blindness. The early meal was partaken of in a wild turmoil, and not one suspected what awaited them in the evening. When afternoon came the noble Penelope remembered her purpose of inviting the suitors to a trial of skill, and ascended to the chamber where the treasures of her dear lord were kept. His favorite bow, of pliant horn, was hanging there, dusty and unsightly, for it had not been touched for twenty years. Penelope’s tears fell upon her dear lord’s weapon as she took it down from the wall and brushed away the dust. She sat down, laid it across her knees, and sobbed aloud. When her grief had spent itself she left the chamber with the bow in her hands, followed by her maidens carrying the heavy quiver, full of arrows. She entered the portal of the hall of columns modestly wrapped in her long veil. Beside her stood an attendant maiden. She spoke: “Come, ye brave suitors who gather in my house daily to dance and feast and who pretend to woo me. Hear me and listen to the trial which he must stand who would become my husband. Here are the bow and arrows of my dear lord, Ulysses, and here the rings. Him will I follow as spouse who can most easily bend the bow and shoot through the twelve rings. My dear son shall lose his patrimony through no fault of mine.” She gave the weapon to EumÆus to carry into the hall, and when the good man held the well-known bow in his hands, he began to weep and kiss the weapon. Philoetius also wept, for at the sight of the bow the memory of his beloved master overcame him. Antinous snarled at the faithful creatures and bade them quickly bring in the bow. The company now betook themselves to the hall, where Telemachus deftly planted the axes in the ground, so that they formed rings at regular distances from one another. He then went to the threshold and took up the weapon. “It is a splendid sport,” said he. “I have a great mind to try it myself.” He lifted the bow to bend it, but in vain. After resting a moment he tried again, but neither did he succeed this time. He drew it for the third time and would certainly have succeeded, but his father made a secret sign to him. He leant the bow against the wall in pretended discouragement and said: “Either I am a miserable weakling or else too young. But the rest of you must now try it and end the contest.” Leiodes stepped forward, but his arms fell when he tried to draw the bow. One after another tried it, and one after another set it down unbent. They rubbed the horn with fat and warmed it at the fire to render it more pliable, and still it was not bent. By chance the two herdsmen went out together and Ulysses quickly followed them and drew them aside. “Friends, a word,” he whispered. “Ye are both honest fellows and faithful, and long to have your master back. And now, if he should come and needed your assistance, would ye defend the suitors or brave Ulysses? Show me your hearts.” “If Jupiter would but grant me this wish,” cried the herdsman, “thou shouldst see what my arms can do!” “And mine!” added the honest swineherd. “Oh, that it might come true!” “It has come true!” said Ulysses with majesty. “Your master is here and counts on you. I am Ulysses! Do ye remember the wound I once received from the wild boar? Here is the scar.” They recognized the mark and fell upon his neck and kissed his cheeks and shoulders joyfully. But Ulysses commanded them to control their joy before they should be discovered. “Listen to my plan,” he said hurriedly, “and learn what you must do. It must be now or never. The gods will assist me, and you, honest friends, when all is finished, shall be to me as Telemachus’ brothers. I will bestow riches and lands upon you. Only do as I tell you. When we go back I shall demand the bow, and no doubt the suitors will object. But do thou, EumÆus, pay no attention, but go and fetch it. Then go out and tell the old nurse to shut up all the women in their quarters. Thou, Philoetius, hasten thou to close the doors of the house and put up the bars that none of the suitors may escape. I will now go in. Follow me, but singly and quietly.” When Ulysses reËntered the hall and seated himself in his old place by the door, the bow had just reached the hands of Eurymachus, who was sitting by the hearth seeking to make it more pliant with grease and the warmth of the fire. He then made trial of it ten times, but could not draw. At last, much discomfited, he laid it down. The boastful Antinous, who was no longer anxious to try his skill, proposed to wait until the morrow, this being a feast day. “Then,” said he, “we will make sacrifice to Apollo and try the bow once more. Now fill up the cups, for to-day is a feast day and we must drink a double portion.” This speech pleased everyone and the servants did as they were bid. When drinking had been resumed, Ulysses arose and began: “Listen to me, ye suitors of the esteemed princess, and especially ye two lords, Antinous and Eurymachus, I would make a proposal to you in jest. As ye do not care to bend the bow on this day of the feast, let me try it and see if any of my youthful strength remains, or if old age and hardships have sapped it.” As he had expected, murmurs arose on all sides and Antinous answered for the rest: “Miserable stranger, hast thou taken leave of thy senses? The wine hath led thee to these unseemly words! Take care that thou be not put aboard a ship and sent to King Echetus, the scourge of strangers! There wouldst thou hardly escape with nose and ears uncut. Thou hadst better keep quiet and take what is given thee, and leave such business to younger men.” Penelope had remained in the hall with her ladies to await the result of the contest and now she spoke. “Antinous, I think thou art not just. Why should we omit the strangers who are our guests? Perchance thou thinkest that if this man should draw the bow that he would wed me? Let not this scruple disturb thee, for that is impossible.” “Oh, it is truly not that, noble Queen,” said Eurymachus. “But we fear the tongues of men, should a miserable wandering beggar man draw the bow which all we younger men have been unable to bend. It would be an eternal disgrace for us.” Telemachus now arose and spoke with dignity and emphasis. “Mother, thou hast spoken well. But no one in this house but I has a right to the bow, and I shall give it to whom I will, and woe to him who would hinder me. But do thou go up to thy chamber, attend to thy duties there, and direct the women servants. This is men’s business and mine most of all, for I am the head of the house.” Wondering, she withdrew, musing upon the wise words of her son. As she lay upon her couch she wept for her dear lord, until Pallas Athene gently closed her eyes in slumber. Meanwhile the swineherd, who had been awaiting a sign from Ulysses, boldly fetched the bow and handed it to him. The suitors sprang from their seats as though they would lay hands on him, but Telemachus cried in a threatening voice: “Thou hast done well, father—for thou canst not obey all, and I am master here!” A loud malicious shout of laughter followed these words and their anger was dissipated. The swineherd went directly to carry out the instructions he had received. Philoetius, also, stole forth to close and bar the doors, then returned as quietly and took up his post beside the swineherd. The eyes of all the suitors were now turned toward the beggar, who was turning the bow over and over and examining it carefully to see whether worms had perhaps eaten into the horn or it had suffered other injury. Many a youth said to his neighbor: “See how the old man examines the bow. Perhaps he has one like it at home or would make one like it. See how he turns it about, the old wiseacre.” Ulysses next pushed his table aside, lifted the mighty bow, and lightly as a minstrel touches the strings of his harp, he picked the taut cord of his bow, which responded with as fine a note as the twittering of sparrows. At that moment a tremendous thunderclap resounded through the house, making all the suitors tremble; but the king exulted in the favorable augury. He placed an arrow on the string, and without leaving his seat or waiting to take aim, he let it fly through the rings nor missed a single one. The guests sat in silent astonishment while he spoke to his son. “Thou seest, Telemachus, thy guest brings thee no disgrace. Indeed, I feel that my strength is still unimpaired. But I think it is supper time. Then let us amuse ourselves with song and lute.” He accompanied these words with a sign which Telemachus understood. The youth went quickly out and soon returned armed and placed himself, expectant and darkly frowning, by his father’s chair, holding sword and shield in readiness for him. |
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