Ulysses of Ithaca · Karl Friedrich Becker
Chapter XVI Ulysses reveals himself to Penelope
Now at length Ulysses allowed the old nurse to carry the news to his sleeping spouse. Breathless she entered the chamber where the queen slumbered. “Penelope!” she cried. “Awake, my daughter! This is no time for sleep! He is here! Ulysses has come! All is over! Look down into the court. There they all lie in heaps. And hast thou heard nothing? Come quickly!” “Oh,” cried Penelope, stretching herself and rubbing her eyes; “silly woman, how canst thou wake me thus and with such a fairy tale? Wouldst thou deceive me with false hopes? Oh, I slept so sweetly! How canst thou play such a trick on me? Only thine age protects thee from my anger.” “I am not jesting, my daughter,” answered the old woman. “He is here, and with Telemachus’ aid has killed all the suitors. It happened whilst thou slept.” “Mother, tell me the truth! How could he come so quickly?” She had sprung up and hung about the old nurse’s neck with anxious glances. Euryclea laughed. “He has been in the house since yesterday and thou thyself hast spoken with him.” “What, Euryclea! The ragged old beggar?” “Indeed, yes. The beggar with the greasy wallet whom the suitors made sport of. If they had but known!” “Alas, mother, how disappointed I am. That is not my husband. No, that is not Ulysses.”
“Not Ulysses? Child, you are strange. I knew it last evening when I washed his feet and recognized the great scar—you remember it—from the boar’s tusk. But he would not allow me to speak.” “It cannot be! It cannot be!” repeated Penelope. “But tell me what has happened?” And then Euryclea had to tell the whole story of what she had seen and heard of the horrible massacre. “Thy long-desired, beloved husband is below and awaits thee, daughter. Come quickly to embrace him.” “Ah, mother, do not rejoice too soon. Thou knowest how I long for Ulysses, but I know the gods. They often wander about over the earth to reward the good, surprise the wicked, and punish long-continued evils. If the suitors are really killed, it must have been by a god, whom my misery has touched. How could a mere man, even though he were stronger and bolder than Ulysses, undertake so unequal a task? I did indeed admire the stranger’s mind, but he did not remind me of Ulysses. No, that was not my vigorous, impetuous husband. But I will go and view the horrible scene and talk with my son. If the stranger is my husband I shall know him by secret signs. But if he is a god, as I believe, we will sacrifice before him and worship him.”
They descended and entered the hall, where they found Ulysses sitting by the fire leaning against a pillar. He did not look up, but waited for what his wife would say. She sat opposite him a long time in silence. Sometimes, as she looked earnestly at him, she thought it was he; then when she looked upon his rags, she could not believe it. “Mother,” cried Telemachus, “hast thou no greeting for my father? Thou hast a heart in thy breast that is indeed harder than a stone.” “My dear son,” answered his mother, “thou dost me a wrong. I am dumb with astonishment. I cannot grasp the miracle and do not venture to address this wonderful man nor to look in his face. But if he is really my Ulysses, we shall soon recognize each other. We have secret signs between us that none others know.” “My son,” said Ulysses, smiling gently, “let thy mother study me a while longer. She certainly has reason to doubt me clad in these ugly rags. But now let us consult together how we may conceal the death of the suitors from the people to-day, for they all have relations and retainers who will seek to avenge them. We have killed not one, but one hundred. How shall we save ourselves?” “Dear father,” replied the modest son, “thou must know, for no mortal is as wise as thou. It shall be as thou sayest. We will follow thee and aid thee as far as we are able.”
“Then I will tell thee, what seems wise to me,” answered the resourceful Ulysses. “Let each one go first to the bath and put on his best garments. Let the women also don their holiday robes, as is seemly on the day of their master’s return. The gifted minstrel must strike his harp, that all the passers by may suppose that Penelope is celebrating her marriage day. Then early in the morning we will leave the house and flee to Laertes’ country-place, where the gods shall give us further counsel.” The household at once carried out all these commands, and soon the hall, which an hour before had resounded with the deadly blows of Ulysses’ spear, and had looked like a bloody battlefield, was filled with gay strains of song and music of the lute. Meanwhile Ulysses, too, had gone to rid himself of his dirt and ugly rags. The old housekeeper conducted him to a warm bath and afterward anointed his head with precious oil. And behold, as he left the bath the goddess Athene suddenly clothed him with beauty, so that he appeared taller and stronger. The bald crown disappeared and his head was once more crowned with shining brown locks. His cheeks became rosy and the fire returned to the dull eyes. Blinded by the miracle, the housekeeper presented him the handsome tunic and cloak, and thus the conqueror reëntered the hall in the guise of a king and hero. Everything was hushed, while all eyes gazed at the newcomer in admiration.
Joyfully Penelope sprang up. Yes, this was her Ulysses, just as he had left her. But was it not a delusion? Doubting she sank back in her chair. But Ulysses stepped before her and held out his arms joyously. “Now wilt thou not accept me again for thy husband, dear wife?” he cried. “What! Thou art not ready? Alas, in vain have I longed for thee! Go, Eurynome, make ready my couch, that I may sorrowfully retire to rest.” “Do so, good mother,” said Penelope. “Set his bed out of our chamber wherever thou wilt and prepare it with fine soft covers and skins.” It was the test by which the queen could recognize her husband. Ulysses had once built a sleeping chamber about the trunk of a great olive tree which stood in the court and had built the couch hard and fast into the trunk of the tree, so that no one could have carried it out until he should first chop down the tree. “Someone has destroyed my sleeping chamber, if the bed may be carried out,” cried Ulysses. “And I had joined it so well to the trunk of the olive tree.”
Before dawn, after a few hours of sleep, Ulysses arose and awakened his wife, Telemachus, and the herdsmen. “Come quickly, friends,” said he, “that we may reach my father’s plantation before daylight. Very soon the news of the death of the suitors will spread throughout the island, and the princes whose sons have not returned at night will set out to seek them. If they all unite and lead their people against us, we shall not be able to withstand them. Therefore we will conceal ourselves in Laertes’ distant garden in the country. Some god will then tell us what further course to pursue. But thou, Penelope, do thou remain here until I summon thee. Ascend to the upper chambers with thy maidens and stay quietly there, for their vengeance will not touch thee.” When he had finished speaking, the men took up their weapons and hastened away. With the first rays of the sun they entered the enclosure that surrounded old Laertes’ country-seat. His house stood in front, surrounded by the farm buildings. The men were away at work, but Laertes was in the orchard, which he loved and where he himself labored every day. Telemachus explained to the servants that he had brought a stranger who wished to speak with the old king. To Telemachus and the two herdsmen Ulysses spoke aside. “Remain ye here and prepare a select fattened pig for a sacrifice. Meanwhile I will go alone to my father and see if he know me. Then I will bring him here and we will eat together.”
Ulysses found his father spading round a pear tree in the well-ordered orchard. He was so busy that he did not perceive the new arrival. Ulysses’ heart contracted at the sight. His father was clad in a dirty tunic, coarse and well mended. He had bound pieces of oxhide about hands and ankles to protect them from thorns, and he wore a cap of goatskin to shield his bald head from the cold morning air. He finally rose from his work and saw the well-dressed stranger standing before him. “Greeting to thee, old man,” said Ulysses. “What good care thou takest of thy garden. Thy trees and vines look flourishing. Only thyself, it seems to me, art neglected. What niggardly master keeps thee so poorly and allows thee to go about ragged as a beggar? Tell me, where am I? I would inquire the way to the palace of Ulysses. I wish to see the gallant hero; he was my guest upon his travels, and as my way lay past Ithaca I have laid by my ship to visit my dear friend.” “Alas, good stranger,” replied Laertes, “thou hast come too soon. Who knows what monster of the deep hath swallowed him or upon what shore his bones are bleaching. It is ten years since Troy was destroyed, and since then we have watched and waited for him daily, and I most of all. For know, that the old man who stands before thee here, dignified by sorrow, is Laertes, father of the noble Ulysses. His mother died of a broken heart, but to me the gods have denied this boon.”
“Worthy king,” replied Ulysses, “weep no more. The gods have rejoicing in store for thee. Living thou shalt behold thy son.” “Alas, do not encourage false hopes. What knowest thou of him? Speak, man, if thou canst tell aught. Where hast thou seen him and how long since?” “About five years,” answered Ulysses. “But hast thou heard nothing of the rumors which are abroad? Men say that Ulysses has returned and found his house full of rude guests who squandered his fortune and wooed his wife; that he has destroyed them through craft or violence, and is once more master in his own house.” “Oh, that it were so,” lamented the old man. “Speak! Art thou a divine messenger and bringest me true tidings?” “Noble king,” now spake Ulysses with trembling voice, scarce able to control his tears, “is it not true that thou didst once give that fig tree there to thy son when he was a boy?” “Yes—” “And this splendid row of pear trees also?” “Yes—” “And that thou didst often walk among these hedges in friendly talk with him, telling him the name and use of each bush?” “Yes, yes—!” “How he will rejoice when he returns to find thee in thy old haunts.” “But ye gods! How dost thou know this? Thine eyes shine! Thou tremblest? Yes, thou art Ulysses, my son! By Jupiter, it is he!”
“Yes, father, it is thy son. Oh, contain thyself. Take care, father.” Laertes now cried aloud: “If thou art really my son Ulysses returned, give me a sign, a convincing token, by which I may know thee.” “Examine this scar which the boar gave me upon Parnassus,” answered Ulysses gayly. “Thou and my loving mother didst send me to grandsire Autolycus to fetch the gifts which he had promised me.” The old man’s knees trembled when he recognized the mark. Quickly he embraced his beloved son, who covered his face with kisses. And then Ulysses told his whole story down to the killing of the suitors. When he had finished, Laertes cried: “Now I see that you still reign, ye immortal gods. For at last these horrid deeds have been avenged. But, my son, how wilt thou escape the vengeance which such a bloody exploit will bring upon thee?” “Let not that trouble thee,” answered Ulysses. “If the love of the people does not protect me, the spirit of Tiresias has promised me a place of refuge in the interior of the mainland, where a peaceful and happy old age awaits me. But now let us go down to the palace, where Telemachus and my faithful servants await us, and thou shalt clothe thyself as befits a king.” When all was in readiness, the happy company sat down to eat together. In the meanwhile rumors of the terrible fate which had overtaken the suitors spread through the city. Their fathers and relatives hastened to the crowded market place to inflame the people. Eupithes, father of Antinous, who had cherished the hope above all others that his son was to be the successful wooer of the beautiful Penelope and ruler over all Ithaca, was the leader. He gained over many of the people by his eloquent pleadings, but others held back, especially after listening to Medon and Halitherses.
“Friends,” said the former, “believe me, Ulysses did not do this tremendous deed without the help of the gods. I myself saw the divinity in Mentor’s form standing beside him and turning aside the spears. Even before the shaking of her shield, numbers fell before him. Do not oppose him or ye will fight against offended gods.” “No, ye Ithacans, do not take up arms against him. Let him alone,” said the cautious old Halitherses. “He has but fulfilled the vengeance of the gods.” Many agreed with this and went quietly home. But the friends of the suitors and followers of Eupithes armed themselves and hastened from the palace to Laertes’ gardens, where they found the household under arms and ready to receive them. “Ah, this is a happy day,” cried the valiant Laertes, “when I may fight together with my son and grandson.” Now the goddess Pallas Athene, in Mentor’s shape, approached and breathed courage into him. “Come, noble Laertes,” cried the goddess, “thou shalt open this illustrious battle and cast the first lance at the enemy.” With a prayer to Jupiter he hurled the first spear, and see! it pierces the bronze armor and enters Eupithes’ breast. At the same moment a fiery bolt sent by Jove and accompanied by a roar of thunder struck the earth between the combatants. This terrible omen, together with the fall of their leader, robbed the enemy of their courage and reason.
Then the goddess stepped forth and called to the combatants in a loud voice: “Men of Ithaca, desist! Give up this unhappy war which displeases the gods! Shed no more blood and depart quickly hence!” Upon this no one dared speak of revenge, and even the bravest warriors put away their weapons with the resolve never to use them against the man who had right upon his side. Time, by degrees, dulled the hatred even of the fathers of the murdered men. The wisdom, magnanimity, and kindness of Ulysses soon won all hearts and at last converted even his bitterest foes into friends. Ulysses did not forget the vow which he had made in the kingdom of departed souls, to the gods of Hades, to offer in sacrifice a young ox and, to the spirit of Tiresias, a black ram when he should be at home once more. Both victims were brought forth, and while the heralds were preparing the feast for the people, Ulysses gave the death stroke to the animals. While the fat pieces were burning on the altar, he prayed solemnly, with uplifted hands: “Holy gods of Hades, here in my kingdom I thus gratefully fulfil the vow I made in yours. I have surmounted many difficulties and often barely escaped with my life, always trusting in a fortunate outcome. And now, ye gracious gods, I can look back gratefully upon my past. Often will I renew this offering, for one should remember the dead gladly, nor ever shun the goddess of death and fate. But wherever destiny may lead me, oh grant that I may rule the people gloriously and in peace, and that the name of the illustrious Ulysses may live among future generations of men.”
Text from Project Gutenberg, public domain in the United States.