BOOK XIX

The Meeting with Penelope and the Recognition by Eurycleia

So in the hall was royal Odysseus left behind, plotting to slay the suitors with Athene’s aid, and at once to Telemachus he spoke these winged words:

“Telemachus, this fighting gear must all be laid away, and with soft words you must beguile the suitors when they because they miss it question you: ‘I put it by out of the smoke, for it looks no longer like the armor which Odysseus left behind when he went away to Troy; it is all tarnished, where the scent of fire has come nigh. Besides, this graver fear some god put in my mind. You might when full of wine begin a quarrel and give each other wounds, making a scandal of the feast and of your wooing. Steel itself draws men on.’ ”

He spoke, and Telemachus heeded his dear father, and calling aside his nurse Eurycleia, said: “Nurse, go and keep the women in their rooms while I place in the chamber my father’s goodly armor, which as it lies uncared for round the house smoke stains, while he is gone. I have been foolish. Now I will place it where no scent of fire shall come near.”

Then said to him his dear nurse Eurycleia: “Ah! Would, my child, you might incline to heedful ways, and mind the house and guard its treasures! But who shall go and bear the light? You will not let the women stir who might have lighted you.”

Then answered her discreet Telemachus: “This stranger here; for I will allow no idle man to touch my bread, come he from whence he may.”

Such were his words; unwinged, they rested with her. She locked the doors of the stately hall. And now arose Odysseus and his gallant son and bore away the helmets, bulging shields and pointed spears. Before them Pallas Athene, holding a golden lamp, made beauteous light. Then Telemachus said to his father quickly:

“Father, my eyes behold a mighty marvel. The palace walls and the fair spaces, the pine-wood beams and the uprising pillars are all aglow as from a blazing fire. Surely a god is in this house, even such as they who hold the open sky.”

But wise Odysseus answered him and said: “Hush, check your thoughts and ask no question. It is indeed a signal from the gods who hold Olympus. Go you to rest. I will continue here, to try these slave-maids and your mother more; and she shall weep and question me of all.”

So he spoke, and through the hall forth went Telemachus with blazing torch, to rest within that chamber where he always lay when pleasant sleep drew near. Here then he laid him down, awaiting sacred dawn; while in the hall royal Odysseus stayed behind, plotting to slay the suitors with Athene’s aid.

Now from her room came heedful Penelope, like Artemis or golden Aphrodite. Beside the fire where she was wont to sit, they placed a chair fashioned with spiral work of ivory and silver; which Icmalius, the carpenter, had made long time ago, setting upon the lower part a rest for feet, fixed to the chair itself. Over the whole a large fleece had been thrown. Here heedful Penelope now sat down. Soon came the white-armed slave-maids from their hall, and cleared away the abundant food, the tables, and the cups from which the proud lords had been drinking. The embers from the braziers they threw upon the floor, and in the braziers piled fresh heaps of wood to furnish light and warmth. Then thus Melantho once more mocked Odysseus:

“Stranger, are you still here, to plague us all night long, prowling about the house, watching the women? Be off, pervert, and be content with eating, or you will soon be hit with a brand and go.”

But looking sternly on her, wise Odysseus said: “Twisted woman, why rail at me with such an angry heart? Is it that I am foul and wear mean clothes and beg about the land? Necessity constrains me. This is what beggars and what homeless people are. Yet once I lived in luxury among my mates, in a rich house, and often gave to wanderers, careless who they might be or with what need they came. Servants I had in plenty and everything besides by which men live at ease and are reputed rich. But Zeus, the son of Kronos, brought me low. His will it was. And you too, woman, some day yet may lose those charms in which you now excel the other slave-maids. Your mistress may become provoked to anger with you. Odysseus may return; there still is room for hope. But if he is dead, as you suppose, and to return no more, yet by Apollo’s grace he has a worthy son, Telemachus, whose eye no woman in the hall escapes in her misdeeds; because he is no longer now the child he was.”

Heedful Penelope heard what he was saying, and she rebuked her maid and spoke to her and said: “Not in the least, you bold and shameless creature, have you escaped my eye in doing guilty deeds. Your head shall answer for them. Full well you knew—you heard it from myself—that I intended to ask tidings of this stranger here in my hall about my husband; for I am deeply distressed.”

She spoke, and to the house-keeper Eurynome she said: “Eurynome, pray bring a bench and a fleece on it, and let the stranger sit and tell his tale, and listen too to me; I wish to question him.”

She spoke; the other with all speed brought her a polished bench and placed it there, and on it laid a fleece. Then long-tried royal Odysseus sat down, and thus began heedful Penelope:

“Stranger, I will myself first ask you this: who are you? Of what people? Where is your town and kindred?”

Then wise Odysseus answered her and said: “Lady, no man upon the boundless earth may speak dispraise of you, because your fame is wide as is the sky. Such is the glory of a blameless king who reverences the gods and rules a people numerous and mighty, upholding justice. For him the dark-soiled earth produces wheat and barley, trees bend low with fruit, the flock has constant issue, and the sea yields fish, under his righteous sway.³⁵ Because of him his people prosper. Question me, then, of all things else while I am here; but do not ask my lineage and home, nor fill my heart with still more pains by recollection. I am a man of sorrows; yet must I not in a strange house sit down to weep and wail. To grieve incessantly makes matters worse. One of these maids, or you yourself, might take it ill, and say my flood of tears came with a weight of wine.”

Then answered him heedful Penelope: “Stranger, all excellence of mine in face or form the immortals took away the day the Argive host took ship for Ilios, and with them went my lord Odysseus. If he would come and tend this life of mine, greater would be my fame and fairer then. Now I am in distress, such woes God thrusts upon me. For all the nobles who bear sway among the islands—Doulichion, Same, and woody Zacynthus—and they who here in farseen Ithaca dwell round about, sue for unwilling me and waste my house. Wherefore I pay no heed to strangers or to suppliants, nor even to heralds who ply a public trade; but, longing for Odysseus, I waste my heart away. These men urge on my marriage: I wind my skein of guile. First, Heaven inspired my mind to set up a great loom within the hall and weave a robe, fine and exceeding large; and to the men said I, ‘Young men who are my suitors, though royal Odysseus now is dead, forbear to urge my marriage till I complete this robe,—its threads must not be wasted,—a shroud for lord Laeärtes, against the time when the fell doom of death that lays men low shall overtake him. Achaean wives about the land I fear might give me blame if he should lie without a shroud, he who had great possessions. ’ Such were my words, and their high hearts assented. Then in the daytime would I weave at the great web, but in the night unravel, after my torch was set. Thus for three years I hid my craft and cheated the Achaeans. But when the fourth year came, as time rolled on, when the months waned and the long days were done, then through the means of slave-maids—the thankless creatures—they came and caught me and upbraided me; so then I finished it, against my will, by force. Now I can neither shun the match nor find a fresh device. My parents too press me to marry, and my son chafes at the men who swallow up his living; noting it now, for now he is a man and fully able to heed his house, and Zeus guarantees him honor. Yet what of this! Tell me the lineage of which you come. You are not born of immemorial oak or rock.”

Then wise Odysseus answered her and said: “O honored wife of Laeärtes’ son, Odysseus, will you not cease to question of my lineage? Well, I will tell the tale, though you deliver me to sorrows more than I now bear. But so it ever is when one is absent from his land as long as I, wandering from town to town, he meets with hardship! Still, I will tell you what you ask and seek to know.

“There is a country, Crete, in the midst of the wine-dark sea, a fair land and a rich, begirt with water. The people there are many, innumerable indeed, and they have ninety cities. Their speech is mixed; one language joins another. Here are Achaeans, here brave native Cretans, here Cydonians, crested Dorians, and noble Pelas gians. Of all their towns the capital is Cnosus, where Minos^ax became king when nine years old—Minos, the friend of mighty Zeus and father of my father, bold Deucalion. Deucalion begot me and the prince Idomeneus. Idomeneus, however, went in beaked ships to Ilios, in train of the Atreidae. My own proud name is Aethon,^ay and I am the younger born; he was the older and the better man. Here was it that I saw Odysseus and gave him entertainment; for into Crete a strong wind bore him, and while he steered toward Troy it forced him past Maleia. He anchored at Amnisus, where is Elithyia’s cave, in a harbor hard to win, and he scarcely cleared the storm. At once he came to town, inquiring for Idomeneus; for he said he was his friend, beloved and honored. But it was now the tenth dawn, or the eleventh, since Idomeneus had gone with the beaked ships to Ilios. And so it happened it was I who brought him to the palace, where I entertained him well and gave him generous welcome from the abundance of my house. To him and all the men who followed I furnished barley-meal and sparkling wine from out the public store, with oxen enough for sacrifice to fill their hearts’ desire. Here for twelve days the noble Achaeans tarried; the strong wind Boreas constrained them and even near the shore let them not lie at anchor. Some baffling power aroused it. But on the thirteenth day the wind went down, and so they put to sea.”

He made the many falsehoods of his tale seem like the truth. So as she listened, drops ran down; she melted into tears. And as the snow melts on the lofty mountains, when Eurus melts what Zephyrus has scattered, and at its melting flowing rivers fill; so did her fair cheeks melt with flowing tears, as she bewailed her husband who was seated by her side. Odysseus in his heart pitied his sobbing wife; but his eyes stood fixed as horn or iron, motionless in their sockets. Through craft he checked his tears. But when she had had her fill of tears and sighs, finding her words once more she said to him:

“Now, stranger, I shall put you to the test, I think, and see if at your hall you really entertained my husband and his gallant comrades, as you say. Tell me what sort of clothes he wore; what the man himself was like, and the comrades who were with him.”

Then wise Odysseus answered her and said: “O lady, it is hard, with so long a time between, to tell you that; for twenty years are gone since he set forth and left my land. Still, I will tell you how my mind makes him appear. A cloak of purple wool Odysseus wore, made with a double fold. A brooch of gold upon it was fashioned with twin buckles, the front part ornamented. In his forepaws a dog held down a spotted fawn and clutched it as it writhed. This all admired and marveled how, though things of gold, the dog would clutch and choke the fawn, and how the fawn that struggled to escape would twitch its feet. His tunic too I noticed, gleaming across the flesh, just like the skin stripped down from a dried onion; so smooth it was, and glistening like the sun. And truly many a woman gazed on the man with wonder. But this I will say further; mark it well. I do not know if Odysseus wore this dress at home, or if a comrade gave it when he entered the swift ship, or yet perhaps some host. Odysseus was beloved by many men; few of the Achaeans equally. I gave him gifts myself,—a sword of bronze, a beautiful purple doublet and a bordered tunic; and I sent him off with honor on his well-benched ship. A herald a little older than himself attended him. I will describe what manner of man this herald was: bent in the shoulders, swarthy, curly-haired, and named Eurybates. Odysseus honored him beyond his other comrades, because he had a mind that suited well his own.”

So he spoke, and stirred still more her yearning after tears, as she recognized the tokens which Odysseus exactly told. But when she had had her fill of tears and sighs finding her words once more she said to him:

“From this time forth, stranger, you who before were pitied shall in my halls be one beloved and honored. For I it was who gave the clothes which you describe. I folded them in the chamber and fixed the glittering brooch to be his pride. But I shall nevermore receive him homeward returning to his native land. Wherefore through evil fate Odysseus went by hollow ship to see accursed Ilios, name never to be named.”

Then wise Odysseus answered her and said: “O honored wife of Laeärtes’ son, Odysseus, mar your fair face no more, nor waste your heart with sorrowing for your husband. And yet I do not blame you; for any woman weeps to lose the husband of her youth, whose children she has borne, whose love she tasted, though he were other than Odysseus, who they say is like the gods. Still, cease your grief and mark my word; for I will speak unerringly and nothing will I hide of what I lately heard about the coming of Odysseus,—how he is near, in the rich country of the Thesprotians, a living man, and bringing with him much good treasure which he has begged throughout the land. His trusty crew and hollow ship he lost on the wine-dark sea, when coming from the island of Thrinacia; for Zeus and the Sun were angry with him, because his crew killed the Sun’s cattle. So they all perished in the surging sea; but he on his ship’s keel was cast by a wave ashore on the coast of the Phaeacians, who are kinsmen of the gods. They honored him exceedingly, as if he were a god, and gave him many gifts and themselves wished to bring him home unharmed. And here in Ithaca Odysseus would have been long time ago, only it seemed a thing of greater profit to gather wealth by roaming far and wide,—so many gainful ways, beyond all mortal men, Odysseus understands; no living man can match him.

This is the story which the king of the Thesprotians, Pheidon, told me. Moreover in my presence, as he offered a libation in his house, he swore the ship was launched and sailors waiting to bring him home to his own native land. But he sent me off before, for a ship of the Thesprotians happened to be starting for the Doulichian grainfields. He showed me all the treasure that Odysseus had obtained; and really it would support man after man ten generations long, so large a stock was stored in the king’s palace. Odysseus himself, he said, was gone at that time to Dodona, to learn from the sacred lofty oak the will of Zeus, and how he might return, whether openly or by stealth, to his dear native land when now so long away. So he is safe, and soon will come, and now is near at hand, and parted from friends and native land he will not tarry long. Lo, I will add an oath. First then of all the gods be witness Zeus, highest of gods and noblest, and let the hearth of good Odysseus whereto I come be witness; all this shall be accomplished exactly as I say. This very year Odysseus comes, as this moon wanes and as the next appears.”

Then said to him heedful Penelope: “Ah, stranger, would these words of yours might be fulfilled! Soon should you know my kindness and many a gift from me, and every man you met would call you blessed. But yet the thought is in my heart how it will really be. Odysseus will return no more, nor you get passage hence; for there are no more masters in the house, able, as once Odysseus was—if ever he was here—to speed the worthy stranger forth or kindly to receive. Still, wash the stranger’s feet, my women, and prepare his bed, bedstead and robes and bright-hued rugs, that well and warmly he may spend the time till gold-throned dawn; and early in the morning bathe and anoint him well, so that indoors beside Telemachus he may await his meal, seated within the hall. And woe to him who persecutes or annoys the man. Henceforth he shall get nothing here, though he be sorely vexed. For how could you think me, stranger, better than other women in will and careful wisdom, if you should sit at table in my hall unkempt and meanly clad? Men are short-lived. And if a man is harsh and thinks harsh thoughts, on him all call down curses while he lives, and when he dies revile him; but he who is gentle and thinks gentle thoughts, his praises strangers carry far and wide to all mankind, and many speak him well.”

Then wise Odysseus answered her and said: “O honored wife of Laeärtes’ son, Odysseus, hateful to me are robes and bright-hued rugs, since first I left the snowy hills of Crete on board the long-oared ship. Here I would rest just as I used to lie through sleepless nights; for many a night I spent on a rough bed, awaiting sacred bright-throned dawn. Baths for the feet give me no pleasure, and foot of mine shall not be touched by any of these maids who serve the palace,—unless indeed there be some aged woman, sober-minded, one who has borne as many sorrows as myself. It would not trouble me that such a one should touch my feet.”

Then said to him heedful Penelope: “Dear stranger,—and none discreet as you among the traveling strangers has been more welcome at my house, so suitably discreet is all you say,—I have an aged woman of an understanding heart, who gently nursed and tended that unfortunate and took him in her arms the day his mother bore him. She, feeble as she is, shall wash your feet. Come, rise up, heedful Eurycleia, and wash a man old as your master! Perhaps Odysseus is already such as he, in feet and hands; for soon in times of trouble men grow old.”

As she spoke thus, the old woman hid her face in her hands and shed hot tears and uttered wailing words:

“Alas for you, my child! Helpless am I. Zeus surely hated you beyond all humankind, godfearing though you were. For no man ever burned to Zeus, the Thunderer, fat thighs so good or such choice hecatombs as you have offered when you prayed to reach a hale old age and rear your gallant son. And yet from you alone he utterly cut off the day of coming home. Even so perhaps women reviled him too at foreign tables, when he reached some lordly house, just as these brutes are all reviling you. To shun their insults and their many taunts, you do not let them wash you; and I, not loath, am bidden to it by the daughter of Icarius, heedful Penelope. So I will wash your feet, both for Penelope’s own sake and for your own, because my heart within is stirred by sorrow. Yet mark the words I say! Many a way-worn stranger has come here; but one so like Odysseus I declare I never saw, as you are like him, form, and voice and feet.”

Then wise Odysseus answered her and said: “Yes, woman, so says every one who sees us two, that we are like each other, even as you shrewdly say.”

As he spoke thus, the old woman took the glittering basin which she used for washing feet and poured in much cold water, afterwards adding warm. Now Odysseus was sitting by the hearth, but soon turned toward the darkness; for suddenly into his mind there came the thought that in touching him she might detect the scar and thus the facts be known. So she drew near him and began to wash her master; and presently she found the scar which a boar inflicted long ago with his white tusk, when to Parnassus came Odysseus to see Autolycus and his sons. Good Autolycus was the father of the mother of Odysseus, and was famous among men for thievery and oaths. Hermes, the god, had given him skill, because to him Autolycus had burned well-pleasing things of lambs and kids; so Hermes gladly served him. Now Autolycus, visiting the fertile land of Ithaca, found there his daughter’s son, a child new-born; and after supper Eurycleia laid the child upon his knees, and speaking thus she said:

“Autolycus, choose now a name to give your child’s own child. He has been wished for long.”

Then answered her Autolycus and said: “My son-in-law and daughter, give him the name I say. Since I come here odious to many men and women on the bounteous earth, therefore Odysseus be his name.^az And I, when he is grown and visits the great palace of his mother’s kin upon Parnassus, where my possessions lie, will give thereof to him and send him home rejoicing.”

On this account Odysseus came to get the glorious gifts. And Autolycus and his sons gave him a welcome with friendly hands and courteous words; and Amphithea, his mother’s mother, took Odysseus in her arms and kissed his face and both his beauteous eyes. Then Autolycus bade his famous sons to lay the dinner ready, and they hearkened to his call. They quickly brought an ox, five years old, and flayed and dressed it, laid it asunder, sliced it with skill, stuck it on spits, and roasting it with care served out the portions. Thus all throughout the day till setting sun they held their feast. There was no lack of appetite for the shared feast. But when the sun had set and darkness came, they lay down and took the gift of sleep.

When now the early rosy-fingered dawn appeared, they started on the hunt; the dogs went forth, the men themselves,—the sons of Autolycus,—and with them went royal Odysseus too. They climbed the steep and wood-clad mountain of Parnassus and soon they reached its windy ridges. Just then the sun began to touch the fields as he ascended from the calm and brimming stream of Ocean. And now to a glen the beaters came. Before them, following the tracks, the hounds ran on, the sons of Autolycus hastening after. With the sons went royal Odysseus, close on the hounds, wielding his outstretched spear. In a dense thicket there a huge boar lay. It was a spot no force of wind with its chill breath could pierce, no sunbeams smite, nor rain pass through, so dense it was, and a thick fall of leaves was in it. Here round the boar there came the tramp of men and dogs, as the beaters pushed along. Facing them from his lair, with bristling back, fire flashing in his eyes, the boar stood close at bay. Odysseus first sprang forward, raising the long spear in his sinewy hand, eager to give the blow; but the boar was quick and struck him on the knee, and by a side-thrust of his tusk tore the flesh deep, but reached no bone. And now Odysseus, by a downward blow, struck the right shoulder of the boar; clean through it the bright spear-point passed. Down in the dust he fell with a moan, and his life flew away. Then the good sons of Autolycus looked to the boar; and the wound of gallant princely Odysseus they bound up skillfully, and with a spell staunched the black blood, and soon they reached their father’s house. So Autolycus and his sons when they had fully healed Odysseus and given him glorious gifts,—pleasing by kindness him who pleased them too,—sent him with speed to Ithaca, where his father and honored mother rejoiced at his return and questioned much how he had got the scar. He told them how, while he was hunting, a boar inflicted it with his white tusk when he had gone to Parnassus with Autolycus’ sons.

This was the scar the woman felt with her flat hand. She knew it by the touch and dropped the foot. The leg fell in the basin; the copper rang, and tilting sidewise let all the water run upon the ground. Then joy and grief together seized her breast; her two eyes filled with tears, her full voice stayed; and laying her hand upon Odysseus’ chin she said:

“You really are Odysseus, my dear child, and I never knew you till I handled my master over and over!”

She spoke and cast her eyes upon Penelope, meaning to let her know her lord was there. But Penelope could not catch the glance nor understand, because Athene drew away her notice; and Odysseus, feeling for Eurycleia’s throat, clutched it with his right hand, then drew her closer toward him with his left and said:

“Why, mother, will you kill me? It was yourself who nursed me at the breast; and now through many hardships I come in the twentieth year to my own native land. Though you have found me out and a god inspired your heart, be silent, lest some other person in the hall may know. Or else,—I tell you, and certainly it shall be done,—if God by me subdues the lordly suitors, I will not spare even you, nurse though you are, when I shall slay the other serving-women in my halls.”

Then answered heedful Eurycleia: “My child, what word has passed the barrier of your teeth? You know how steadfast, how inflexible my spirit is. I shall hold fast like stubborn rock or iron. And this I will say further: mark it well. If God by you subdues the lordly suitors, then I will name the women of the hall and tell you who dishonor you and who are guiltless.”

But wise Odysseus answered her and said: “Mother, why talk of them? You have no need. I will myself observe them well and find out each. Be quiet with your story! Leave the matter to the gods!”

So he spoke, and through the hall forth went the aged woman to fetch water for his feet; for all the first was spilled. Now when she had washed him and anointed him with oil, again Odysseus drew his bench closer beside the fire, to warm himself,—but with his tatters hid the scar,—and thus began heedful Penelope:

“Stranger, there is but little more that I will ask; because the season of sweet rest will soon be here, for those to whom kind sleep will come when they are sad. But upon me God sends incessant sorrow. Day after day my joys are tears and sighs, as I watch my household tasks and watch my women. Then when night comes and slumber visits all, I lie in bed, and crowding on my heavy heart sharp cares sting me to weeping. As when Pandareos’ daughter, the russet nightingale, sings sweetly at the coming in of spring, perched in the thick-leaved trees, and to and fro pours out her thrilling voice, in lamentation for her dear child, Itylus, whom with the sword she one day blindly slew, her son by royal Zethus;³⁶ so does my doubtful heart toss to and fro whether to bide beside my son and keep all here in safety,—my goods, my maids, and my great high-roofed house,—and thus revere my husband’s bed and heed the public voice, or finally to follow some chief of the Achaeans who woos me in my hall with countless gifts. My son, while but a child and slack of understanding, did not permit my marrying and departing from my husband’s house; but now that he is grown and come to man’s estate, he prays me to go home again and leave the hall, so troubled is he for that wealth which the Achaeans waste. But come, interpret now and hear this dream of mine. I have twenty geese about the place who pick up corn out of the water, and I amuse myself with watching them. But from the mountain came a great hook-beaked eagle and broke the necks of all and killed my geese. In heaps they lay, scattered about the buildings, while he was borne aloft into the sacred sky. So I began to weep and wail,—still in my dream,—and fair-haired Achaean women gathered round and found me sadly sobbing that the eagle killed my geese. Then down again he came, lit on a jutting rafter, and with a human voice he checked my tears and said: ‘Courage, O daughter of renowned Icarius! This is no dream, but true reality, which yet shall come to pass. The geese are suitors; and I, the eagle, was at the first a bird, but now, this second time, am come your husband to bring a ghastly doom on all the suitors.’ At these his words sweet slumber left me, and opening my eyes I saw the geese about the buildings devouring corn beside the trough just as they used to do.”

Then wise Odysseus answered her and said: “Lady, the dream cannot be understood by wresting it to other meanings; Odysseus surely has himself revealed what yet shall be. The suitors’ overthrow is plain: on all it falls; none shall escape from death and doom.”

But heedful Penelope said to him once more: “Stranger, in truth dreams do arise perplexed and hard to tell, dreams which come not, in men’s experience, to their full issue. Two gates there are for unsubstantial dreams, one made of horn and one of ivory. The dreams that pass through the carved ivory delude and bring us tales that turn to naught; those that come forth through polished horn accomplish real things, whenever seen. Yet through this gate came not I think my own strange dream. Ah, welcome, were it so, to me and to my child! But this I will say further; mark it well. This is the fatal dawn which parts me from Odysseus’ home; for now I shall propose a contest with the axes which when at home he used to set in line, like trestles, twelve in all; then he would stand a great way off and send an arrow through. This contest I shall now propose to all the suitors. And whoever with his hands shall lightliest bend the bow and shoot through all twelve axes, him I will follow and forsake this home, this bridal home, so very beautiful and full of wealth, a place I think I ever shall remember even in my dreams.”

Then wise Odysseus answered her and said: “O honored wife of Laeärtes’ son, Odysseus, delay no longer this contest at the hall; for wise Odysseus will be here before the suitors, handling the polished bow, can stretch the string and shoot an arrow through the iron.”

Then said to him heedful Penelope: “Stranger, if you were willing to sit beside me here and entertain me, no sleep should ever fall upon my eyes. And yet one cannot be forever without sleep; for to each thing the immortals fix a season, to be ordained for men upon the fruitful earth. So I will go to my upper chamber and lie on my bed, which has become for me a bed of sorrows, ever watered with my tears since Odysseus went away to see accursed Ilios,—name never to be named. There I must lie. You lie in the hall. Make a bed upon the floor, or the maids shall bring you bedding.”

So saying, she went to her bright upper chamber, yet not alone; beside her went her waiting-women too. And coming to the chamber with the maids, she there bewailed Odysseus, her dear husband, till on her lids clear-eyed Athene caused a sweet sleep to fall.