I tried to conceal my unhappiness from Odysseus, as I did not wish to appear unappreciative. And he himself continued to be as attentive and considerate as he had been at first, although his manner was that of an older person to a child.
I often caught him studying me, head on one side, chin in hand, as if I were a puzzle; but that was his habit with all, I soon discovered. He told me once that everyone had a hidden door, which was the way into the heart, and that it was a point of honour with him to be able to find the handles to those doors.
For the heart was both key and lock, and he who could master the hearts of men and learn their secrets was well on the way to mastering the Fates and controlling the thread of his own destiny.
Not, he hastened to add, that any man could really do that. Not even the gods, he said, were more powerful than the Three Fatal Sisters. He did not mention them by name, but spat to avoid bad luck; and I shivered to think of them in their glum cave, spinning out lives, measuring them, cutting them off.
But Odysseus had turned, and was looking out of the window. Ithaca was no paradise. It was often windy, and frequently rainy and cold. The nobles were a shabby lot compared with those I was used to, and the palace, although sufficient, was not what you would consider large. But there were cows as well, and sheep, and pigs, and grain to make bread, and sometimes a pear or an apple or a fig in season, so we were well supplied at table, and in time I got more used to the place.
Also, to have a husband like Odysseus was no mean thing. Everyone in the region looked up to him, and petitioners and those seeking his advice were numerous. Some even came in ships from far away to consult him, as he had a reputation as a man who could undo any complicated knot, though sometimes by tying a more complicated one. All of that would happen once Odysseus had been gone for years, but there was no foreshadowing of it yet. My mother-in-law was circumspect. She kept saying that I was certainly very young.
Odysseus remarked dryly that this was a fault that would correct itself in time. She was widely respected according to her because she was so intensely reliable. I ought to have thanked her for it, with my heart as well as my lips, for there is nothing more embarrassing than to make a slip of manners, thus displaying your ignorance of the customs of those around you.
Whether to cover the mouth when you laugh, on what occasions to wear a veil, how much of the face it should conceal, how often to order a bath Eurycleia was an expert on all such matters. That was lucky, for my Mother-in-law, Anticleia who ought to have taken charge in this way was content to sit silently and say nothing while I made a fool of myself, a tight little smile on her face. She had a fund of information about all the neighbouring noble families, and in that way I learned a great many discreditable things about them that would be useful to me later on.
Nobody but she must give him his baths, oil his shoulders, prepare his breakfasts, lock up his valuables, lay out his robes for him, and so on and so forth. Even the robes I made for him were not quite right - too light, too heavy, too sturdy, too flimsy. She did make herself invaluable when Telemachus was born. I am honour bound to record that. She said the prayers to Artemis when I was in too much pain to speak, and she held my hands and sponged off my forehead, and caught the baby and washed him, and wrapped him up warmly; for if there was one thing she knew as she kept telling me—it was babies.
Her delight in him was boundless. Odysseus was pleased with me. Of course he was. And it did. But on the other hand, why was he still—and possibly always thinking about Helen?
After the nine-month voyage we came shore, Beached at the same time as he was, by the hostile air, Infants when he was an infant, wailing as he wailed, Helpless as he was helpless, but ten ti more helpless as well, For his birth was longed-for and feasted our births were not.
His mother presented a princeling. Our various mothers Spawned merely, lambed, farrowed, littered, Foaled, whelped and kittened, brooded, hatched out their clutch. We were animal young, to be disposed will, Sold, drowned in the well, traded, used discarded when bloomless.
He was fathered; we simply appeared, Like the crocus, the rose, the sparrows engendered in mud. Our lives were twisted in his life; we all were children When he was a child, We were his pets and his toythings, me sisters, his tiny companions. We grew as he grew, laughed also, ran ; ran, Though sandier, hungrier, sun-speckled, most days meatless.
He saw us as rightfully his, for whatever purpose He chose, to tend him and feed him, to wash him, amuse him, Rock him to sleep in the dangerous boats of ourselves. We did not know as we played with him there in the sand On the beach of our rocky goat-island, close by the harbour, That he was foredoomed to swell to our cold-eyed teenaged killer.
If we had known that, would we have drowned him back then? Young children are ruthless and selfish: everyone wants to live. Would we? In only a minute, when nobody else was looking? Would we have had it in us? Ask the Three Sisters, spinning their blood red mazes, Tangling the lives of men and women together. Only they know how events might then have been altered. Only they know our hearts. From us you will get no answer. Helen Ruins My Life After a time I became more accustomed to my new home, although I had little authority within it, what with Eurycleia and my mother-in-law running all domestic matters and making all household decisions.
In other words, there was the standard family push-and-pull over whose word was to carry the most weight. All were agreed on one thing: it was not mine. Dinnertimes were particularly stressful.
There were too many undercurrents, too many sulks and growlings on the part of the men and far too many fraught silences encircling my mother-in-law. When I tried to speak to her she would never look at me while answering, but would address her remarks to a footstool or a table. As befitted conversation with the furniture, these remarks were wooden and stiff. I soon found it was more peaceful just to keep out of things, and to confine myself to caring for Telemachus, when Eurycleia would let me.
You run along and enjoy yourself. I felt like a prize horse on parade, walking in my fancy robes yhile sailors stared at me and townswomen whispered. I had no friend of my own age and station so these excursions were not very enjoyable, and for that reason they became rarer. Sometimes I would sit in the courtyard, twisting wool into thread and listening to the maids laughing and singing and giggling in the outbuildings as they went about their chores. There at least I would have company, as a number of slaves were always at work on the looms.
I enjoyed weaving, up to a point. It was slow and rhythmical and soothing, and nobody, even my mother-in-law, could accuse me of sitting idle while I was doing it. Not that she ever said a word to that effect, but there is such a thing as a silent accusation. I stayed in our room a lot the room I shared with Odysseus. It was a fine enough room, with a view of the sea, though not so fine as my room back in Sparta. Odysseus had made a special bed in it, one post of which was whittled from an olive tree that had its roots still in the ground.
That way, he said, no one would ever be able to move or displace this bed, and it would be a lucky omen for any child conceived there. This bedpost of his was a great secret: no one knew about it except Odysseus himself, and my maid Actoris but she was dead now and myself.
I pretended to be frightened, and said I would never, never think of betraying his big post. Actually, I really was frightened. Nevertheless our best times were spent in that bed. It sounded quite different when she told it. Her story was about how Theseus and Peirithous were both so in awe of her divine beauty that they grew faint whenever they looked at her, and could barely come close enough to clasp her knees and beg forgiveness for their audacity.
The sad fact is that people had praised her so often and lavished her with so many gifts and adjectives that it had turned her head. She thought she could do anything she wanted, just like the gods from whom she was convinced she was descended. But no normal lives were boring, and Helen was ambitious. She wanted to make a name for herself. She longed to stand out from the herd.
When Telemachus was a year old, disaster struck. It was because of Helen, as all the world knows by now. The first we heard of the impending catastrophe was from the captain of a Spartan ship that had docked in our harbour. The ship was on a voyage around our outlying islands, buying and selling slaves, and as was usual with guests of a certain status we entertained the captain to dinner and put him up overnight.
Helen, he said, had run away with a prince of Troy. This fellow—Paris was his name was a younger son of King Priam and was understood to be very good looking. It was love at first sight. Menelaus was now in a red rage, and so was his brother Agamemnon because of the slight to the family honour.
Meanwhile, Paris and the wicked Helen were laughing at them from behind the high walls of Troy. It was quite the business, said our guest, with evident relish: like all of us, he enjoyed it when the high and mighty fell flat on their faces. Everyone was talking about it, he said. As he was listening to this account, Odysseus went white, though he remained silent. That night, however, he revealed to me the cause of his distress. Every man who swore it will now be called on to defend the rights of Menelaus, and sail off to Troy, and wage war to get Helen back.
I repressed a desire to say that Helen should have been kept in a locked truck in a dark cellar because she was poison on legs. What joy would there be for me, alone in the palace? By alone you will understand that I mean without friends or allies.
There would be no midnight pleasures to counterbalance the bossiness of Eurycleia and the freezing silences of my mother-in-law. It would be difficult for me to get out of it now. When Agamemnon and Menelaus turned up, as they were bound to do along with a fateful third man, Palamedes, who was no fool, not like the others—Odysseus was ready for them.
I thought I was being very clever when I offered to accompany the three visitors to the field to witness this pitiful sight. It was Palamedes who found Odysseus out he grabbed Telemachus from my arms and put him down right in front of the team. Odysseus either had to turn aside or run over his own son. So then he had to go. The other three flattered him by saying an oracle had decreed that Troy could not fall without his help.
That eased his preparations for departure, naturally. Which of us can resist the temptation of being thought indispensable? Waiting What can I tell you about the next ten years? Odysseus sailed away to Troy.
I stayed in Ithaca. The sun rose, travelled across the sky, set. Only sometimes did I think of it as the flaming chariot of Helios. The moon did the same, changing from phase to phase. Only sometimes did I think of it as the silver boat of Artemis. Spring, summer, fall, and winter followed one another in their appointed rounds.
Quite often the wind blew. Telemachus grew from year to year, eating a lot of meat, indulged by all. We had news of how the war with Troy was going: sometimes well, sometimes badly. When would he come back and relieve my boredom? He too appeared in the songs, and I relished those moments. There he was making an inspiring speech, there he was uniting the quarrelling factions, there he was inventing an astonishing falsehood, there he was delivering sage advice, there he was disguising himself as a runaway slave and sneaking into Troy and speaking with Helen herself, who—the song proclaimed had bathed him and anointed him with her very own hands.
Finally, there he was, concocting the stratagem of the wooden horse filled with soldiers. And then the news flashed from beacon to beacon Troy had fallen. There were reports of a great slaughtering and looting in the city. And then, finally, the hoped-for news arrived: the Greek ships had set sail for home. And then, nothing. Day after day I would climb up to the top floor of the palace and look out over the harbour. Day after day there was no sign. Sometimes there were ships, but never the ship I longed to see.
Rumours came, carried by other ships. Odysseus had been in a fight with a giant one-eyed Cyclops, said some; no, it was only a one-eyed tavern keeper, said another, and the fight was over non-payment of the bill.
Some of the men had been eaten by cannibals, said some; no, it was just a brawl of the usual kind, said others, with ear-bitings and nosebleeds and stabbings and eviscerations. Needless to say, the minstrels took up these themes and embroidered them considerably. They always sang the noblest versions in my presence the ones in which Odysseus was clever, brave, and resourceful, and battling supernatural monsters, and beloved of goddesses.
Or several gods were against him. Or the Fates. Or something. For surely the minstrels implied, by way of praising me only a strong divine power could keep my husband from rushing back as quickly as possible into my loving and lovely wifely arms. The more thickly they laid it on, the more costly were the gifts they expected from me. I always complied. Even an obvious fabrication is some comfort when you have few others. My mother-in-law died, wrinkled up like drying mud and sickened by an excess of waiting, convinced that Odysseus would never return.
Old Eurycleia got even older. So did my father-in-law, Laertes. He lost interest in palace life, and went off to the countryside to rummage around on one of his farms, where he could be spotted shambling here and there in grubby clothing and muttering about pear trees. I suspected he was going soft in the head. Now I was running the vast estates of Odysseus all by myself. In no way had I been prepared for such a task, during my early life at Sparta. I was a princess, after all, and work was what other people did.
She had a manner of eating the fish raw, heads first, an activity I would watch with chilled fascination. Have I forgotten to tell you she had rather small pointed teeth? She disliked ordering the slaves about and punishing them, though she might suddenly kill one who was annoying her—she failed to understand that they had value as property and she had no use at all for weaving and spinning.
One fish, two fish, three fish, another fish, another fish, another fish! Such things are pointless. So in the palace of Ithaca I had to learn from scratch. At first I was impeded in this by Eurycleia, who wanted to be in charge of everything, but finally she realised that there was too much to be done, even for a busybody like her. Though slave garments were coarse, they did fall apart after a while and had to be replaced, so I needed to tell the spinners and weavers what to make.
The grinders of corn were on the low end of the slave hierarchy, and were kept locked in an outbuilding usually they were put in there for bad behaviour, and sometimes there were fights among them, so I had to be aware of any animosities and vendettas. The male slaves were not supposed to sleep with the female ones, not without permission.
This could be a tricky issue. They sometimes fell in love and became jealous, just like their betters, which could cause a lot of trouble. If that sort of thing got out of hand I naturally had to sell them. But if a pretty child was born of these couplings, I would often keep it and rear it myself, teaching it to be a refined and pleasant servant.
Perhaps I indulged some of these children too much. Eurycleia often said so. Melantho of the Pretty Cheeks was one of these. Through my steward I traded for supplies, and soon had a reputation as a smart bargainer. Through my foreman I oversaw the farms and the flocks, and made a point of learning about such things as lambing and calving, and how to keep a sow from eating her farrow.
As I gained expertise, I came to enjoy the conversations about such uncouth and dirty matters. It was a source of pride to me when my swineherd would come to me for advice. On his behalf, of course. Always for him. How his face would shine with pleasure! How pleased he would be with me! Despite all this busyness and responsibility, I felt more alone than ever.
What wise counsellors did I have? Who could I depend on, really, except myself? Many nights I cried myself to sleep or prayed to the gods to bring me either my beloved husband or a speedy death.
Eurycleia would draw me soothing baths and bring me comforting evening drinks, though these came with a price. But her exhortations must have had some effect, because during the daytimes I managed to keep up the appearance of cheerfulness and hope, if not for myself, at least for Telemachus.
There was an increasing amount of curiosity about me, as there was bound to be about the wife—or was it the widow? They brought, also, the occasional feeler: if Odysseus were proved to have died, the gods forfend, might I perhaps be open to other offers?
Me and my treasures. I ignored these hints, since news of my husband dubious news, but news continued to arrive. Odysseus had been to the Land of the Dead to consult the spirits, said some.
No, said another, it was a high-class Sicilian knocking shop the courtesans there were known for their musical talents and their fancy feathered outfits. It was hard to know what to believe. Sometimes I thought people were making things up just to alarm me, and to watch my eyes fill with tears. There is a certain zest to be had in tormenting the vulnerable. Any rumour was better than none, however, so I listened avidly to all. But after several more years the rumours stopped coming altogether: Odysseus seemed to have vanished from the face of the earth.
His first port of call was the sweet Lotus shore Where we sailors did long to forget the foul war; But we soon were hauled off on the black ships once more, Although we were pining and grieving. On the island of Circe we were turned into swine, Till Odysseus bedded the goddess so fine, Then he ate up her cakes and he drank up her wine, For a year he became her blithe lodger!
To the Isle of the Dead then he next took his way, Filled a trench up with blood, held the spirits at bay, Till he learned what Teiresias, the seer, had to say, Odysseus, the artfullest dodger! The whirlpool Charybdis did not our lad catch, Nor snake-headed Scylla, she could not him snatch, Then he ran the fell rocks that would grind you to scratch, For their clashing he gave not a piddle! Then he told his adventures and laid to his store A hundred disasters and sufferings galore, For no one can tell what the Fates have in store, Not Odysseus, that master disguiser!
The Suitors Stuff Their Faces I was wandering in the fields the other day, if it was a day, nibbling on some asphodel, when I ran into Antinous. He usually struts about in his finest cloak and his best robe, gold brooches and all, looking belligerent and haughty, and shouldering aside the other spirits; but as soon as he sees me he assumes the guise of his own corpse, with blood spurting all down his front and an arrow through his neck. He was the first of the Suitors that Odysseus shot.
The man was a pest when he was alive, and a pest he remains. I carry it in remembrance of the great passion I bore for you, and carried to my grave. So be a good fellow for once and eject the arrow. It does nothing to improve your appearance. But the arrow vanished and the blood disappeared, and his greenish-white complexion returned to normal. Now we can be friends, and as a friend you can tell me why did you Suitors risk your lives by acting in such an outrageous way towards me, and towards Odysseus, not once but for years and years?
Prophets foretold your doom, and Zeus himself sent bird portents and significant thunderings. It was hardly my divine beauty. I was thirty-five years old by the end of it, worn out with care and weeping, and as we both know I was getting quite fat around the middle.
You babbled on about how I made your knees melt and how you longed to have me share your bed and bear your children, yet you knew perfectly well that I was all but past child-bearing age. He could barely suppress a smirk. So, what was your real motive? Widows are supposed to be consumed with lust, especially if their husbands have been missing or dead for such a long time, as yours was.
The darkness conceals much! You may not have been much to look at, but you were always intelligent. You can put the arrow back now. To tell you the truth, I feel a surge of joy every time I see it sticking through your lying, gluttonous neck. First five came, then ten, then fifty the more there were, the more were attracted, each fearing to miss out on the perpetual feasting and the marriage lottery.
They were like vultures when they spot a dead cow: one drops, then another, until finally every vulture for miles around is tearing up the carcass. They simply showed up every day at the palace, and proclaimed themselves my guests, imposing upon me as their host. Then, taking advantage of my weakness and lack of manpower, they helped themselves to our livestock, butchering the animals themselves, roasting the flesh with the help of their servants, and ordering the maids about and pinching their bottoms as if they were in their own homes.
It was astonishing the amount of food they could cram into themselves—they gorged as if their legs were hollow. Each one ate as if to outdo all the others at eating their goal was to wear down my resistance with the threat of impoverishment, so mountains of meat and hillocks of bread and rivers of wine vanished down their throats as if the earth had opened and swallowed everything down.
They said they would continue in this manner until I chose one of them as my new husband, so they punctuated their drunken parties and merrymaking with moronic speeches about my ravishing beauty and my excellence and wisdom. But I tried to view their antics as one might view a spectacle or a piece of buffoonery. What new similes might they employ?
Which one would pretend, most convincingly, to swoon with rapture at the sight of me? Once in a while I would make an appearance in the hall where they were feasting—backed by two of my maids—just to watch them outdo themselves. Amphinomous usually won on the grounds of good manners, although he was far from being the most vigorous. I have to admit that I occasionally daydreamed about which one I would rather go to bed with, if it came to that.
Afterwards, the maids would tell me what pleasantries the Suitors were exchanging behind my back. They were well positioned to eavesdrop, as they were forced to help serve the meat and drink.
What did the Suitors have to say about me, among themselves? Here are a few samples. Sometimes I wondered whether the maids were making some of this up, out of high spirits or just to tease me. They seemed to enjoy the reports they brought, especially when I dissolved in tears and prayed to grey-eyed Athene either to bring Odysseus back or put an end to my sufferings.
Then they could dissolve in tears as well, and weep and wail, and bring me comforting drinks. It was a relief to their nerves. Eurycleia was especially diligent in the reporting of malicious gossip, whether true or invented: most probably she was trying to harden my heart against the Suitors and their ardent pleas, so I would remain faithful to the very last gasp.
What could I do to stop these aristocratic young thugs? They were at the age when they were all swagger, so appeals to their generosity, attempts to reason with them, and threats of retribution alike had no effect. Not one would back down for fear the others would jeer at him and call him a coward. Remonstrating with their parents did no good: their families stood to gain by their behaviour. Telemachus was too young to oppose them, and in any case he was only one and they were a hundred and twelve, or a hundred and eight, or a hundred and twenty it was hard to keep track of the number, they were so many.
The men who might have been loyal to Odysseus had sailed off with him to Troy, and any of those remaining who might have taken my side were intimidated by the sheer force of numbers, and were afraid to speak up. I knew it would do no good to try to eject my unwanted suitors, or to bar the palace doors against them. Behave like water, I told myself. Video Audio icon An illustration of an audio speaker.
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Great book, The Penelopiad pdf is enough to raise the goose bumps alone. Add a review Your Rating: Your Comment:. The Tent by Margaret Atwood. Providing the key is driven young physicist Rosalind Franklin. But if the double helix was the breakthrough of the 20th century, then what kept Franklin out of the history books?
A play about ambition, isolation, and the race for greatness. Published for the first time in Methuen Drama's Modern Classics series, this edition features a brand-new introduction by Mandy Greenfield.
Imprisoned by walls of their own construction, here are three people, each in midlife, in midcrisis, forced to make choices--after the rules have changed.
Elizabeth, with her controlled sensuality, her suppressed rage, is married to the wrong man. She has just lost her latest lover to suicide.
Nate, her gentle, indecisive husband, is planning to leave her for Lesje, a perennial innocent who prefers dinosaurs to men. Hanging over them all is the ghost of Elizabeth's dead lover Short stories inspired by the ancient Celtic god of love and youth, from the New York Times—bestselling author of The No.
Angus is one of the earliest Celtic deities and one of the most cherished to this day. Like an even more handsome combination of Apollo and Eros, he is the god of love, youth, and beauty.
Alexander McCall Smith has turned his storytelling talents to crafting a collection of short fiction from this Irish mythology. McCall Smith mesmerizingly unites reality and dreams, today and the ancient past, leaving the reader to wonder: what is life but the pursuit of dreams? Angus, who presides over love and youth is also, it turns out, kindly to pigs. He is nicely reimagined in this spare, polished work. In the title story from her acclaimed collection Moral Disorder, Margaret Atwood takes us to the farm.
At first, for Nell and Tig, livestock would mean deadstock. Newly-arrived city slickers shouldn't have animals, they think, corroborated by the real farmers down the road. But Tig's kids from his first marriage are at the farm on weekends, and it's not a bad education for children to learn where their food comes from. First come the chickens, then the ducks, and before Nell knows it the cows have arrived too. Soon Nell finds herself becoming a different type of woman than she ever thought she might be.
The New York Times Book Review notes that "the tremendous imaginative power of [Atwood's] fiction allows us to believe that anything is possible"—this applies as much to the world of the Crakers as it does to the strange life of a family in the countryside. By turns funny, moving, incisive, earthy, shocking, "Moral Disorder" displays Atwood's celebrated storytelling gifts and unmistakable style to their best advantage.
Joan Foster is the bored wife of a myopic ban-the-bomber. She takes off overnight as Canada's new superpoet, pens lurid gothics on the sly, attracts a blackmailing reporter, skids cheerfully in and out of menacing plots, hair-raising traps, and passionate trysts, and lands dead and well in Terremoto, Italy.
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