Homer · a new plain-English translation from the Greek
But godlike Odysseus was left behind in the hall, turning over with Athena how to kill the suitors, and at once he spoke winged words to Telemachus.
"Telemachus, we must put away the weapons of war inside, every one of them, and when the suitors miss them and ask you where they've gone, you must talk them round with gentle words: say, 'I stowed them out of the smoke, since they no longer look as they did when Odysseus left for Troy — they're blackened now, whatever the fire's breath could reach. And besides, a god put this greater thought into my mind too — that you might quarrel over wine and wound one another and shame the feast and the courtship. Iron itself draws a man on to use it.'"
So he spoke, and Telemachus obeyed his dear father. He called out old Eurycleia, his nurse, and said to her, "Nurse, come now, shut the women up inside the hall while I carry my father's fine weapons into the storeroom — the gear that lies about the house neglected, tarnished by smoke, since my father has been gone and I was still a child. Now I mean to put it away where the fire's breath cannot reach it."
Then his dear nurse Eurycleia answered him, "Ah, my child, if only you would always take such care and thought — to look after the house and guard all its possessions! But come, who will go along and carry a light for you? You would not let the maids go ahead with one, the ones who could have shown the way."
Thoughtful Telemachus answered her, "This stranger here will do it — I won't let a man sit idle who has come so far and shares my bread." So he spoke, and his words went unanswered — she said nothing back — and she locked the doors of the well-built hall.
Then the two of them, Odysseus and his shining son, sprang up and began carrying in the helmets and the bossed shields and the sharp spears, while Pallas Athena went ahead of them, holding a golden lamp, making a light most beautiful. Then Telemachus suddenly said to his father, "Father, what a wonder this is that I see with my own eyes! The walls of the hall, the fine crossbeams, the pinewood rafters, the tall columns — they all shine before my eyes as if a fire were burning. Surely there is a god here, one of those who hold the wide heaven."
Resourceful Odysseus answered him, "Be quiet, hold your thought in check, and ask nothing more. This is the way of the gods who hold Olympus. Now go and lie down; I will stay here a while longer, so that I may stir up the servant women and your mother further — she will ask me, grieving, about everything."
So he spoke, and Telemachus went out through the hall and off to his room, where he always slept whenever sweet sleep came upon him, torches lighting his way. There he lay down now too, waiting for shining Dawn.
But godlike Odysseus was left behind in the hall, turning over with Athena how to kill the suitors. And now circumspect Penelope came out from her chamber, like Artemis or golden Aphrodite. They set a chair for her by the fire where she always sat, one inlaid with ivory and silver, which the craftsman Icmalius had once made, fitting a footstool to it, joined to the chair itself, over which a great fleece was always thrown. There circumspect Penelope sat down. Then the white-armed maidservants came in from the hall.
They began clearing away the abundant food and the tables and the cups from which the overbearing men had been drinking. They threw the fire down from the braziers onto the floor and piled fresh wood high upon them, for light and for warmth. Then Melantho scolded Odysseus a second time. "Stranger, will you go on annoying us here all through the night, wandering about the house, peering at the women? Get outside, you wretch, and be content with your supper — or you'll soon be going out the door hit by a firebrand!"
Resourceful Odysseus scowled at her and answered, "Woman, why do you rage at me so, with such spite in your heart? Is it because I am unwashed, because I wear foul clothes on my body, and go begging through the land? Necessity drives me to it — such is the way of beggars and wanderers. I too once lived in a fine house among men, a wealthy man, and often gave to a wanderer, whoever he was and whatever he needed when he came. I had countless servants and everything else that men have who live well and are called rich. But Zeus, son of Cronus, brought me low — such, I suppose, was his will.
"So now, woman, take care that you too don't someday lose all the fine bearing that now sets you apart among the maidservants — take care your mistress doesn't grow angry with you and turn harsh, or that Odysseus doesn't come home — for there is still some measure of hope left. And even if he really has perished and will never return, still, by Apollo's grace, he has a son like him now, Telemachus, and no wrongdoing among the women in this house escapes his notice — he is no longer so young."
So he spoke, and circumspect Penelope heard him, and she scolded her handmaid, calling her by name. "You bold and shameless creature, nothing you do escapes me — this vile deed you're committing you'll pay for with your own head! You knew perfectly well, for you heard it from my own lips, that I meant to question this stranger in my hall about my husband, since I am worn down with grief."
Then she spoke to Eurynome, her housekeeper. "Eurynome, bring a chair here, and a fleece to put on it, so the stranger may sit and speak with me and listen — I mean to question him." So she spoke, and Eurynome went at once and brought a well-polished chair and threw a fleece over it. There long-suffering, godlike Odysseus sat down.
Then circumspect Penelope began to speak among them. "Stranger, I will ask you this first myself: who are you, and where are you from? Where is your city, and your parents?"
Resourceful Odysseus answered her, "My lady, no man on the boundless earth could find fault with you — your fame reaches the wide heaven, like that of some blameless king who, god-fearing, ruling over many strong men, upholds justice, so that the black earth yields wheat and barley, the trees are heavy with fruit, the flocks bring forth young without fail, and the sea gives up its fish — all through his good governance — and the people flourish under him.
"So now, in your own house, ask me anything else you like, but do not ask about my birth and my native land, lest you fill my heart even fuller with pain as I remember it — I am a man of many sorrows. Nor is it right that I should sit in another's house weeping and wailing, for it is a poor thing to grieve without end. Some servant might resent me, or you yourself might, and say my tears come from a mind heavy with wine."
Then circumspect Penelope answered him, "Stranger, the immortals destroyed all my beauty and my form the day the Argives set sail for Ilion, and my husband Odysseus went with them. If he were to come home and tend to my life, my fame would be greater and finer for it. But as it is I only grieve — such are the many troubles a god has heaped upon me. All the chief men who hold power over the islands —
Dulichium, Same, wooded Zacynthus — and those who dwell round Ithaca itself, in plain sight of the sun, court me against my will and waste away my household. And so I pay no heed to strangers, or suppliants, or heralds who serve the public — I only waste my heart away with longing for Odysseus. And they press for the marriage, while I weave my schemes.
"A god first put a device into my mind: I set up a great loom in the hall and began weaving a robe, fine of thread and very wide, and at once I said to the suitors, 'Young men, my suitors, since noble Odysseus is dead, wait, eager as you are for my marriage, until I finish this robe — I would not have my thread wasted and come to nothing — a shroud for the hero Laertes, for when the deadly fate of death that lays men low finally takes him down. I would not have any of the Achaean women in this land reproach me if he who won so much should lie without a shroud.' So I spoke, and their proud hearts consented. Then by day I would weave the great web, and by night, when I had torches set beside me, I would unravel it.
"So for three years I deceived them, and got the Achaeans to believe me. But when the fourth year came and the seasons turned again, as the months waned and many days had run their course, then at last my maids — those shameless creatures — betrayed me, and they came upon me and caught me at it, and scolded me with harsh words. So I was forced to finish the robe, against my will, under compulsion. And now I can neither escape the marriage nor find any other plan. My parents press me hard to marry, and my son chafes to see our living devoured, for he sees it plainly now — he is a man now, well able to look after a household, and Zeus grants him honor for it.
"But still, tell me your lineage, where you are from. You are not sprung from the old oak of legend, or from a rock."
Resourceful Odysseus answered her, "My lady, honored wife of Odysseus son of Laertes, will you never stop asking about my birth? Well then, I will tell you, even though you will give me griefs worse than those I already carry — for that is only right, when a man has been away from his own country as long as I have, wandering through so many cities of men and suffering hardship.
"But even so I will tell you what you ask and seek to know. There is a land called Crete, in the middle of the wine-dark sea, a fine, rich land, ringed by water, and in it are many men, past counting, and ninety cities. Language mixes with language there: there are Achaeans, and great-hearted native Cretans, and Cydonians, and Dorians in their three tribes, and noble Pelasgians. Among their cities is Knossos, a great city, where Minos reigned and every nine years took counsel with great Zeus himself — Minos, the father of my own father, great-hearted Deucalion.
"Deucalion fathered me, and lord Idomeneus. Idomeneus sailed off in his curved ships to Ilion with the sons of Atreus, while I, the younger by birth, was named Aethon — my brother was the elder and the better man. There I saw Odysseus, and gave him guest-gifts, for the force of the wind had driven him to Crete too, off his course for Troy, sweeping him past Malea. He put in at Amnisus, where the cave of Eileithyia is, in a harbor hard to make, and barely escaped the storm. As soon as he came up to the city he asked after Idomeneus,
claiming he was his dear and honored friend — but Idomeneus had already sailed for Troy in his curved ships ten or eleven days before. So I brought him to my house and entertained him well, with warm hospitality, for I had plenty in my stores, and I gathered barley meal and glowing wine from the district for him and for the rest of his companions who were with him, and oxen to sacrifice, that they might satisfy their hearts. There the noble Achaeans stayed twelve days, for a great north wind held them in and would not let them stand even on land — some harsh god had stirred it up.
On the thirteenth day the wind fell, and they put out to sea."
So he told her many falsehoods shaped to sound like truth, and as she listened her tears flowed and her face melted with grief. As the snow melts on the mountain peaks, the snow the east wind has piled up and the west wind then thaws, and as it melts the rivers run full and swollen — so her fair cheeks melted as she wept, weeping for the husband who was sitting there beside her all the while. And Odysseus, though his heart pitied his weeping wife,
kept his eyes as steady as if they were horn or iron, unmoving beneath his lids, and by his cunning hid his tears. And when she had had her fill of tearful weeping, she spoke to him again in answer.
"Now, stranger, I mean to test you, to see whether you really did entertain my husband there in your halls, together with his godlike companions, as you say. Tell me what sort of clothing he wore on his body, what he himself looked like, and the companions who went with him."
Resourceful Odysseus answered her, "My lady, it is hard to speak of a man gone so long — this is already the twentieth year since he left there and went away from my country. But still I will tell you how he appears to my memory.
"Godlike Odysseus wore a thick purple cloak, doubled, with a golden brooch fastened on it, fitted with twin clasps, and on its front was fine work: a hound held a dappled fawn in its forepaws, gripping it as it struggled. Everyone marveled at how, though wrought of gold, the hound was throttling the fawn and holding it down, while the fawn struggled with its feet to break free.
"And I noticed the tunic he wore next to his skin, gleaming like the skin of a dried onion, so soft it was, and shining like the sun — many women indeed admired it. And I'll tell you something else, and mark it well in your heart: I don't know whether Odysseus wore these things at home, or whether one of his companions gave them to him as he boarded the swift ship, or perhaps some host, since Odysseus was dear to many — few of the Achaeans could match him.
"I myself gave him a bronze sword, and a fine, doubled purple cloak, and a fringed tunic, and saw him off with honor aboard his well-benched ship. And he had a herald with him, a little older than himself, and I'll describe him too, just as he was: round-shouldered, dark-skinned, curly-haired, and his name was Eurybates. Odysseus honored him above his other companions, because his mind matched his own."
So he spoke, and stirred in her still more the longing to weep, as she recognized the sure signs Odysseus had described to her. And when she had had her fill of tearful weeping, she answered him and said,
"Now, stranger, you who were pitiable before, you shall be dear and honored in my halls, for I myself gave him those very clothes, just as you describe, folding them from the storeroom, and pinned on that bright brooch to be his glory — but I will never welcome him home again, returning to his own dear country. It was by an evil fate that Odysseus sailed away in his hollow ship to see that cursed city, its name better left unspoken."
Resourceful Odysseus answered her, "My lady, honored wife of Odysseus son of Laertes, ruin your fair skin no more, nor waste your heart away, weeping for your husband — though I do not blame you for it in the least. Any woman would grieve, having lost the husband of her youth, the man she married and bore children to in love, even if he were a far lesser man than Odysseus, who they say was like the gods. But stop your weeping now, and take my words to heart, for I will tell you truly, and hide nothing: I have lately heard news of Odysseus's return,
that he is alive and near, among the rich land of the Thesprotians, and that he is bringing home many fine treasures which he has gathered begging through the land. But he lost his trusted companions and his hollow ship on the wine-dark sea, sailing from the island of Thrinacia — for Zeus and the Sun god were angry with him, since his companions had killed the Sun's cattle. They all perished in the surging sea, but the wave cast him up, clinging to the keel of the ship, on the shore of the Phaeacians, a people close to the gods, who honored him from their hearts as though he were a god,
and gave him many gifts, and were themselves eager to send him safely home. And Odysseus would have been here long ago, but it seemed to his mind more profitable to go on gathering wealth by traveling over much of the earth — so far beyond all other men does Odysseus know how to turn a profit; no mortal could rival him in it. So Pheidon, king of the Thesprotians, told me, and he swore an oath to me himself, pouring a libation in his house, that the ship was launched and the crew ready who would carry him home to his own dear country.
But he sent me off first, for a ship of Thesprotian men happened to be sailing for Dulichium, rich in wheat. And he showed me the treasures Odysseus had gathered — enough, indeed, to feed another man's family for ten generations, so many were the riches stored up for that lord in his halls. And he said Odysseus had gone to Dodona, to hear the will of Zeus from the god's tall, leafy oak, to learn how he should return to his own rich country after being gone so long — whether openly or in secret.
So he is safe, as I say, and will come soon —
"He will be here soon, quite near, no longer far off from his own people and his own land, though he has been kept from them a long while. Even so, I will swear you an oath. Let Zeus be my first witness, highest and best of gods, and the hearth of blameless Odysseus, to which I have now come: everything I tell you will come to pass exactly as I say. This very year Odysseus will come home, between the waning of one moon and the rising of the next."
Thoughtful Penelope answered him, "If only that word could come true, stranger. Then you would soon know my friendship and my many gifts, so that anyone who met you would call you a fortunate man. But this is what my heart tells me will really happen: Odysseus will never come home again, and you will find no ship to send you on your way, for there is no longer a master in this house like Odysseus among men, if he ever truly lived, to welcome and see off honored guests. But wash him, maids, and make up a bed for him — a mattress, cloaks, and shining blankets — so that he may lie warm until golden-throned Dawn arrives. And in the early morning bathe him and rub him with oil,
so that he may sit beside Telemachus inside and enjoy his meal in the hall — and it will go the worse for any man among these suitors who torments him and vexes his spirit; that man will get nothing more done here, however furiously angry he may be. For how else, stranger, will you learn whether I truly surpass other women in judgment and careful thought, if you sit at my table unwashed and shabbily dressed? Men's lives are brief enough as it is. Whoever is harsh himself and thinks harsh thoughts — all mortals call down troubles on his head while he lives, and mock him once he is dead. But whoever is honorable himself and thinks honorable thoughts — strangers carry his fame far and wide over all the earth, and many speak well of him."
Resourceful Odysseus answered her, "Lady, revered wife of Laertes' son Odysseus, cloaks and shining blankets have been hateful to me ever since I first left behind the snowy mountains of Crete aboard a long-oared ship. I will lie now as I have lain through so many sleepless nights before.
Many nights I have spent on a wretched bed, waiting for the coming of the bright dawn. Nor does the washing of feet please my heart at all — no woman shall touch my foot among those who serve as handmaids in this house, unless there is some old woman, wise and loyal, who has suffered in her heart as much as I have. Her I would not begrudge the touch of my feet."
Thoughtful Penelope answered him, "Dear stranger — no man of such good sense, come from so far away, has ever reached my house as a welcome guest before, so wisely and thoughtfully do you say everything you say. I do have an old woman, careful and shrewd in her thinking, who nursed and cared for that unlucky man well, who took him in her own arms the moment his mother bore him. She shall wash your feet, weak as she now is. Come now, rise up, thoughtful Eurycleia, and wash the feet of one who is of an age with your master — Odysseus by now must have feet and hands just such as these. Men grow old quickly under hardship."
So she spoke, and the old woman covered her face with her hands, let fall hot tears, and cried out in grief, "Oh, my child, how helpless I am for your sake! Zeus must have hated you above all men, though you had a god-fearing heart. No man ever burned so many fat thigh-pieces and choice hecatombs to Zeus who delights in thunder as you gave him, praying that you might reach a sleek old age and raise your splendid son. Yet now he has stripped away from you, alone of all men, your day of homecoming. I suppose the serving-women mocked him too, far away in some rich man's house,
whenever he came there as a stranger from a distant land, just as all these shameless creatures here mock you now. And it is to escape their insults and their many taunts that you refuse to let me wash you. But it is not against my will that Icarius's daughter, thoughtful Penelope, has ordered me to do it. So I will wash your feet, both for Penelope's own sake and for yours, since my heart within me is stirred with pity. But listen now to what I am about to say. Many travel-worn strangers have come to this house, but I do not think I have ever seen one so like Odysseus
in build, in voice, and in the shape of his feet, as you are."
Resourceful Odysseus answered her, "Old woman, that is what everyone says who has set eyes on both of us — that we are very much alike, just as you yourself have now shrewdly observed."
So he spoke, and the old woman took up a gleaming basin for washing his feet, and poured in a great deal of cold water, then added hot. But Odysseus sat down away from the fire and quickly turned himself toward the darkness, for at once a fear rose in his heart that as she took hold of him she might notice the scar and everything would come out into the open.
She came close and began to wash her master, and at once she recognized the scar — the one a boar had once given him with its white tusk, long ago, when he had gone to Parnassus to visit Autolycus and his sons, his mother's noble father, who surpassed all men in thieving and in the art of the oath, a skill the god Hermes himself had given him, since Odysseus's grandfather burned him thigh-pieces of lambs and kids that pleased him well, and the god went with him gladly. Autolycus, coming once to the rich land of Ithaca, found his daughter newly delivered of a son.
Eurycleia set the child on his knees just as he finished his supper, and said to him, "Autolycus, find now yourself a name to give this child of your child — he has been much prayed for."
Autolycus answered her, "My son-in-law, my daughter, give him whatever name I now tell you. Since I come here having caused offense to many, to men and women alike, across the fruitful earth, let his name be Odysseus — the man of offense. And when he grows to manhood and comes to the great house of his mother's people on Parnassus, where my possessions lie,
I will give him a share of them and send him home rejoicing."
For that reason Odysseus went there, so that Autolycus might give him splendid gifts. Autolycus and his sons welcomed him with open arms and gentle words, and his grandmother Amphithea threw her arms around him and kissed his head and both his fine eyes. Autolycus called on his glorious sons to prepare a meal, and they, hearing his order, quickly led in a five-year-old bull.
They flayed it and dressed it, cut it up entirely, sliced the meat skillfully and spitted it, roasted it with care, and divided the portions. So all that day, until the sun went down, they feasted, and no one's appetite lacked its fair share of the meal. When the sun set and darkness came on, they lay down and took the gift of sleep. When early Dawn appeared with her rosy fingers, they set out to hunt, both the dogs and the sons of Autolycus themselves, and among them went noble Odysseus,
climbing the steep mountain of Parnassus, cloaked in forest, and soon reaching its windy folds. The sun had only just begun to strike the fields, rising fresh from the deep, calmly-flowing stream of Ocean, when the hunters reached a wooded hollow. Ahead of them the dogs went, tracking the scent, and behind them came the sons of Autolycus, and with them went noble Odysseus close on the dogs' heels, brandishing his long spear. There in a dense thicket lay a great boar; through it no force of wet-blowing winds could pass,
nor could the shining sun strike it with its rays, nor could rain soak all the way through — so thick was the growth, and such a great heap of fallen leaves lay piled within it. The sound of men's feet and dogs' feet came round the boar as they pressed in on the hunt, and it charged out from the thicket to meet them, bristling the hair along its back, its eyes blazing with fire, and stood its ground close before them. Odysseus was first of all to rush in, lifting his long spear in his powerful hand, eager to strike, but the boar was quicker and gored him above the knee, ripping deep through the flesh
as it charged in sideways, though it did not reach the bone. Odysseus struck it in return, catching it square on the right shoulder, and the point of his bright spear passed clean through; the boar dropped in the dust with a squeal, and its life flew away.
Autolycus's sons busied themselves over the beast, and skillfully bound up the wound of godlike, blameless Odysseus, and with a charm they stopped the dark blood flowing, and quickly returned to their dear father's house. Autolycus and his sons healed him well and gave him splendid gifts, and
sent him gladly and swiftly home to his own land, to Ithaca; and there his father and his honored mother rejoiced at his homecoming and asked him about everything, about the scar, how he had gotten it, and he told them the whole story well, how a boar had gored him with its white tusk while he was hunting, when he had gone to Parnassus with the sons of Autolycus.
Now the old woman took the scar in the flat of her hands, felt it, and knew it, and let his foot drop; his shin fell into the basin, and the bronze rang out, and it tipped over sideways, spilling the water out onto the floor.
Joy and grief together seized her heart, and her eyes filled with tears, and her strong voice caught in her throat. She took hold of his chin and said, "You are Odysseus indeed, my dear child! And I did not know you until I had touched and felt my master all over."
With that she glanced toward Penelope, wanting to signal that her own dear husband was there in the house. But Penelope could neither look her way nor take note of it, for Athena had turned her attention elsewhere. Odysseus reached out, took hold of the old woman's throat with his right hand,
and with the other pulled 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 suffering many hardships, I have come at last, in my twentieth year, to my own native land. But since you have noticed, and some god has put it in your heart, say nothing, in case anyone else in the house learns of it. For I tell you plainly, and it will indeed come to pass: if some god delivers these arrogant suitors into my hands, I will not spare even you, my own nurse, when I kill the other slave women in my house."
Thoughtful Eurycleia answered him, "My child, what a word has escaped the barrier of your teeth! You know how firm and unshakable my resolve is, hard as solid stone or iron. But I will tell you something else — take it to heart. If a god delivers these arrogant suitors into your hands, I will tell you then which women in this house dishonor you, and which are innocent."
Resourceful Odysseus answered her, "Nurse, why do you need to speak of them? There is no need. I myself will watch closely and learn each one for myself. Keep this matter to yourself, and leave the rest to the gods."
So he spoke, and the old woman went out through the hall to fetch fresh water for washing his feet, since all the first water had been spilled. When she had washed him and rubbed him with rich olive oil, Odysseus drew his chair closer to the fire again to warm himself, and covered the scar over with his rags.
Thoughtful Penelope then began to speak, "Stranger, I will ask you just one small thing more, for soon it will be time for welcome rest, for anyone whom sweet sleep will take, however troubled his heart. But as for me, some god has given me grief beyond measure.
By day I find some comfort in weeping and mourning, as I turn to my own tasks and those of the maids about the house; but when night comes and everyone else is claimed by sleep, I lie on my bed while sharp, crowding cares torment my grieving heart. Just as the daughter of Pandareus, the nightingale in the green wood, sings her lovely song when spring has newly come, perched among the thick leaves of the trees,
pouring out her rich, changeful voice, mourning her beloved child Itylus, whom she once killed with the bronze in her own folly, the son of lord Zethus — so my heart is torn two ways, this way and that: whether to stay beside my son and guard everything safely, my property, my maids, and this great high-roofed house, out of respect for my husband's bed and what the people say, or whether now, at last, to go with whichever of the Achaeans is the best man courting me here in the hall and offers me the greatest gifts. While my son was still a child and lacking judgment,
he would not let me marry and leave my husband's house; but now that he has grown tall and reached the measure of manhood, he actually prays that I will go away from this house, distressed over the property the Achaeans are eating up. But come, listen to my dream and tell me what it means. I keep twenty geese in the house that eat wheat soaked from the trough, and I love to watch them; but a great eagle with a hooked beak swooped down from the mountain and broke all their necks and killed them, and they lay scattered in a heap about the hall, while the eagle soared up into the bright sky.
And I wept and cried aloud, even within the dream, and the fair-haired women of Achaea gathered around me while I mourned bitterly that the eagle had killed my geese. But then it came back and settled on a jutting roof-beam, and in a human voice it checked my grief and said,
'Take heart, daughter of far-famed Icarius. This is no dream but a true vision, and it will surely come to pass. The geese were the suitors, and I, who was an eagle before, have now come back as your own husband, and I will bring an unseemly death upon every one of the suitors.'
So it spoke, and then honey-sweet sleep let go of me, and looking about I saw the geese in the hall still pecking wheat by the trough, just as before."
Resourceful Odysseus answered her, "Lady, there is no way to interpret this dream by turning it into something else, since Odysseus himself has told you plainly how he will bring it about. Destruction is clearly shown for all the suitors, every one, and not one of them will escape death and his fate."
Thoughtful Penelope answered him, "Stranger, dreams are indeed baffling, hard to read, and not everything in them comes true for men.
There are two gates for the flimsy shapes of dreams: one is made of horn, the other of ivory. Those dreams that pass through the gate of sawn ivory deceive us, bringing words that are never fulfilled; but those that come out through the gate of polished horn bring true things to pass, whenever a mortal sees them. But I do not think my strange dream came from that gate — though it would be most welcome to me and to my son if it had. But I will tell you something else — take it to heart.
This coming dawn is the ill-omened day that will part me from the house of Odysseus, for now I will set up the contest — the axes, which he used to set in a row in his hall, twelve of them, like a row of ship's blocks, and standing well back he would shoot an arrow clean through them all. Now I will set this same contest before the suitors: whoever most easily strings the bow in his hands and shoots an arrow through all twelve axes,
with that man I will go, leaving behind this house I came to as a bride, this very beautiful house, so full of good living — a house, I think, I will remember even in my dreams."
Resourceful Odysseus answered her, "Lady, revered wife of Laertes' son Odysseus, do not put off this contest in the hall any longer. For resourceful Odysseus will be here before these men, for all their handling of the polished bow, manage to string its cord and shoot an arrow through the iron."
Thoughtful Penelope answered him, "Stranger, if only you were willing to sit beside me in this hall and give me pleasure with your talk, sleep would never fall upon my eyes.
But it is not possible for men to go forever without sleep, for the gods have set a due measure for everything in mortal life on the grain-giving earth. So now I will go up to my room above and lie down on my bed, which has become a bed of sorrow to me, always wet with my tears, ever since Odysseus went away to look upon that Ilion better left unnamed. There I will lie down; but you may sleep here in this house, either spreading a bed on the floor or letting the servants make one up for you."
So saying, she went up to her gleaming room above,
She did not go alone — her waiting-women went up with her. And once she had climbed to the upper room with her women, she wept there for Odysseus, her beloved husband, until grey-eyed Athena poured sweet sleep upon her eyelids.