Penelope's Secret

by Nicolas Ségur

  “A few nights later, however, the irreparable occurred. It is necessary to tell you that I had adopted the habit of hiding myself, at nightfall, in the depths of my palace. I left the suitors banqueting noisily and gorging themselves on meat and wine in the rooms downstairs. My five maidservants, sleeping at the entrance to my apartments, guarded my retreat and ensured that it was respected. In taking those precautions, however, I had not thought of the impudence and cunning of the beggar Iras. In fact, that wretch, whom you have justly punished by breaking his jaw, had reached an understanding with my maidservants. Employing flatteries and corruption by turns, he succeeded in putting them to sleep one night by the usage of wine, and subsequently putting me at the discretion of the suitors.

  “That night, therefore I was abruptly woken up in my bed, sensing a pressure and an unaccustomed warmth around my body. I believed at first, while still asleep, that a fly was prowling around and lingering on my lips. On opening my eyes, however, I perceived with stupor, by the light of a torch, that I was in the arms and beneath the body of a powerful warrior. I recognized him. It was Eurymachus, the son of Polybus, a man still young, well-proportioned and intrepid. The infamous Iras, his accomplice, was standing next to him, ready to support him in his enterprise.

  “I had the intention then of crying out, struggling and defending myself; but the idea of your honor and my reputation, kept intact for so long and provoking the admiration of all the Achaeans, stopped me. In any case, the injurious attempt was already entirely perpetrated. Repressing my horror and my anger, therefore, and wanting to avoid any noise and outburst, I closed my eyes again. I pretended to be unaware of what, amid his joyous transports, kisses, sighs and tender appellations, the valorous Eurymachus was doing to my body. When he was satisfied, without my wanting to share his satisfaction, he left, followed by Iras.

  “I remained alone, dazed, utterly stirred up, thinking about, trying to compose myself and console myself. Finally, the struggle I had endured enabled me to find sleep again. And it was with a new surprise that I woke up, again sensing a man in my bed, and then feeling arms, more ardent, if I dare say so, than those of Eurymachus. This time, it was the illustrious Agelaus, king of Zacynthus. Iras followed him. I saw that I was doomed, that Minerva’s prediction was being realized, and that a second suitor was pressing irresistibly the body that I wanted to keep pure of all soiling, virgin of any foreign embrace.

  “As, henceforth, I could only accept destiny, I consoled myself by thinking that there is always some advantage to be obtained from the worst misfortunes. Since I cannot succeed in keeping my girdle intact for my husband, I said to myself, it is better if, at least, he cannot specify the object of his resentment, or have a determined rival. Serving several, my body will not belong especially to anyone, like a hostelry that, sheltering various individuals, can boast of having no master.

  “Thus, it was almost with joy and relief that I awoke again, still warm from the embrace of Agelaus, I saw the son of the famous Polyctor enter,2 who was still beardless and had a divine form and strength. He slipped into the bed, very impatient, and embraced me with such a naïve and impetuous ardor that I could not help smiling at him……

  “Why am I lingering, in any case, in this story? That night and the following night the visits continued. The hundred suitors succeeded one another. I always greeted them, I swear by the gods, with closed eyes and a modest attitude, making a semblance of being asleep. They did not have the satisfaction of seeing on my face the abundant joy that they were giving me.

  “As they were from various countries, of different temperaments, and their demands were as various as their complexions and their habits, and as there were very lustful and very industrious individuals among their number, who revealed unknown secrets to me unintentionally, their obligatory commerce ended up transfiguring me and serving unwittingly as a voluptuous education. Nothing remained unknown to me of everything that Amour and Desire inspire in men.

  “Such is my fatal sin, O Ulysses, and the dream that warned me of it proves to you that the gods were no strangers to it. Not only the perversity of Iras, but an Olympian design was to conduct that entire population of kings—and, I can say, almost every man carrying a scepter—to my bed. Now, judge me, and if you think that I failed voluntarily, and that my conduct was inappropriate to your interests and my reputation, apply to me the punishment that you think necessary.”

  While his wife was speaking, anger rose, dilating Ulysses’ nostrils. He was on the point of becoming prey to dementia and imitating Ajax on the day when the latter killed the sacred flocks. When Penelope had confessed that a second suitor succeeded the first in her bed the hero had raised his arm to kill her, but he had killed so abundantly the day before and had steeped his hands so constantly in blood while exterminating the suitors and their concubines that the act of slaying had become insupportable to him.

  In any case, during his long existence, Ulysses had seen so many men getting carried away, and accomplishing irreparable acts during their fury, that he had become prudent and had learned to dominate his anger. He therefore restrained himself.

  Having need of calm in order to be able to behave appropriately in the new situation that was opening up before him, he turned to his wife and said to her: “Go away, bitch! Return to the palace quickly and await your salary.”

  At those words, accompanied by a terrible gesture, Penelope went away, sobbing. Ulysses began to wander aimlessly, and without respite, as if pursued by the Erinnyes. He passed unconsciously over the sandy beach where once, by sowing salt and feigning madness, he had tried to discourage the Achaeans who wanted to drag him into their expedition against Troy. Then he retraced his steps, pursuing his errant course at random, only desiring in reality to be alone, in order to be able to abandon himself to his reflections.

  He had become just like all the rest—him, the most docile of the Achaeans, whose name was allied in human memory with skill and subtlety! Now he was like Vulcan and Menelaus, obtuse and wretched husbands whose conjugal misfortunes, sung by the aedes, enlivened the banquets of kings! His shame might even be judged incomparable, since neither Venus nor Helen could boast of having attracted and satisfied such numerous and varied lovers as the infamous Penelope.

  I can say, he thought, that all my glory is effaced and annihilated. All that I did admirably, in attracting Achilles and Philoctetes to Troy, inventing the Wooden Horse and visiting unknown lands, my wife has overtaken by means of the gigantic work of her bed. After having been the tamer of Ilium, the voyager supreme, the man who successively undertook all terrestrial labors and exhausted human knowledge, I will only remain in the memory of men for the excellence of my shame. The future will only recognize in me the husband whose fabulous misfortunes attained the summit of derision.

  Ideas of vengeance assailed Ulysses again, obsessively and tumultuously. He thought about running to the palace, dragging the infidel far from the hearth and, after having pierced her with a hundred wounds—as many wounds as she had experienced furtive joys—attaching it behind his chariot and delivering the polluted body to the impetuous ardor of his horses. Afterwards, he would abandon his disastrous kingdom, his rediscovered father and his faithful nurse, and he would go to resume the adventurous life in his hollow ship, braving the tempests and the pirates...

  Ulysses was descending the hills of his island, fortified in his homicidal design, incessantly nourishing his unappeased anger. Already, the ancestral palace founded by Ithacus had appeared to his sight, reanimating his frightful memories. But at that moment, the air that surrounded him seemed to thicken and become colored, and the goddess with the blue eyes, Minerva, his faithful source of inspiration, took on a body of flesh and loomed up before him.

  “Where are you going, Laertide, and what violent projects are filling your mind?” asked the daughter of Jupiter, in her clear and imperious voice.

  On recognizing the redoubtable and propitious Minerva, Ulysses remained nonplussed, without
having the strength to reply.

  “I know what you have learned and the thoughts that are agitating in your mind,” the goddess went on. “Beware, unhappy man, of behaving inconsiderately, and remember that it is the will of the Immortals that directs human action; Penelope was right to attribute her sin to fatality. If she has soiled your bed, it is in order that an almost immortal child would be born from her loins.”

  “One man would have been sufficient for that! Did it need a hundred to engender him?”

  “That child, who will be called Pan—which is to say, born of a total effort—is destined to epitomize the fecund forces that animate the universe. It was therefore necessary that all human saps collaborate in his creation and be confounded in order to form him.”

  “I respect the will of the immortals; but it is cruel to think, O goddess, that my bed has groaned under the weight of an entire people.”

  “Of those men who have obtained Penelope’s favors, not one remains alive. You have killed them all with your own hands. That supreme punishment has washed away the insult.”

  “And Penelope?”

  “Contain the desire to avenge yourself on her,” said Minerva, severely. “Otherwise, the secret of her sin, which has perished with the suitors, will burst forth and will be delivered to the knowledge of all.”

  “How can I bear to share my bed with that woman, who had welcomed there all the ardors of Dulichium, Samos and green Zacynthus? How can I resist repudiating her and shaming her?”

  “Avoid even thinking about it,” said Minerva, alarmed. “Penelope is sacred. Such as she emerges from the multiple embraces of the suitors, she still remains the symbol of fidelity. Helen, Clytemnestra, Andromache, Cassandra, all the queens and all the princesses, flying from lover to lover, have cast dishonor on their sex. The world laughs or turns away from their misbehavior, and only takes consolation from fortifying example in the virtue of Penelope. She is the one who incarnates Achaean honor. She must remain unsuspected. Cease, therefore, to nurture your insensate projects, and remember that the will of the Olympians protects your spouse.”

  Saddened, Ulysses remained silent for a long time. Then, softened, he said: “Your orders will be respected. Who would dare recklessly to oppose the decisions of the Immortals?”

  “Go, then, and try to rise above human miseries,” said Minerva.

  She wanted to fly away, but Ulysses, tormented by a final suspicion, stopped her.

  “Since you honor me with our favor and you protect me, tell me, O goddess, whether, in addition to the suitors, any other man has entered Penelope’s bed during my absence.”

  “A god, taking the form of a goat, also enjoyed her favors,3 but that was necessary in order that the child should be born with cloven hooves and able to participate in animal vigor.”

  Ulysses came through the door of his palace at the first approach of darkness.

  Penelope, anxious and humble, was waiting for him on the threshold, her complexion still animated by anguish and modesty.

  “You are an honest wife, Penelope,” said Ulysses, softly, caressing her chin, as was his habit. “Are the meats ready for the meal?”

  “They are cooked to perfection, and I have even damped down the embers of the fires while waiting for you.”

  When Ulysses had appeared his hunger, avidly taking the best morsels and biting into them vigorously, Penelope drew a large cup of wine from a full skin, and offered it to him. It was then that he raised his eyes and, by the bright light of the torches, he contemplated his wife, who had come to sit down beside him, apprehensively.

  And Penelope appeared new to him, and even more desirable.

  Aided by the fumes of wines, excited by proofs and by emotion, Ulysses even had a strange vision. He thought that all the suitors, emerging from their tombs, came running, agile, active and attentive, each holding a chisel in his hand—a chisel like the one that Ulysses had seen in Crete in the marvelous hands of the sculptor Daedalus.

  One by one, the suitors approached the motionless Penelope, and chiseled, labored and perfected her features, contributing to her transfiguration. Eurymachus, who came first, polished her arms and gave them a divine roundness. Agelaus turned her breast, in the image of Venus, and Peisander amplified her loins and ordered her curves in accordance with those of swans in flight and falling stars. The adroit Polybus widened her eyes and communicated to them the languid and charming softness that predisposes to desire, while another shaped her nostrils, according them a voluptuous palpitation, something that participated in flutters and sighs. All of them worked as perfect artists, divine sculptors, and under their amorous and expert operation, the known and familiar body of Penelope took on a new appearance in Ulysses’ eyes, acquiring unknown perfections, and became an ark of desire, an ineffable nest, capable of enclosing all caresses.

  The hero shook his head in order to expel the light dream. The suitors vanished then, but Penelope remained transfigured, splendid in beauty, young and troubling, full of unknown charms.

  How can it be, Ulysses thought, that having been kneaded voluptuously by foreign hands, that woman appears more desirable to me?

  And as he was incapable of fathoming that enigma, he summarized his thoughts in a single sentence, saying to Penelope: “You are an honest wife, Penelope, and you please me greatly. Is the bed prepared?”

  “It’s waiting for us. I’ve increased the number of cushions and covered them in Phoenician cloth.”

  “Let us go and repose there, then,” said Ulysses, putting his arm around her neck and drawing her toward him.

  II

  The days passed without bringing appeasement to the insincere Ulysses, who wandered along the shores of his island, perplexed.

  Am I awake, then, he said to himself, or is the whimsical Ephialtes, a god fertile in ruses and resources, maintaining me in a deceptive dream?

  For the first time, his intelligence could not offer him any assistance, not clarifying at all the troubling enigma that loomed up before him.

  Since I have discovered and specified the infidelity of Penelope, my delightful and wretched wife, I have not ceased to love her and desire her. I draw her to my bosom at nightfall, and I caress her again at dawn. I experience at every moment the imperious desire to go to see her again, and on seeing her again her charms seem new to me. The words she speaks to me have an immense resonance within me, and I judge them harmonious and inestimable.

  “Do you love me, Penelope?” That is my perpetual question. And while interrogating her in that fashion, I sense that I am gazing at her as my unfortunate companions gazed at the Sirens, when their hearts and minds were already enslaved and doomed by the song. Then, during the brief moments that Penelope takes to reply to me, I cannot breathe and, all a-tremble, my future and my happiness depend on the words that are about to emerge from her mouth.

  Lost in such perplexities, Ulysses evoked the past; and that evocation fortified him in the certainty that he had never adored and appreciated Penelope as much as he did at present.

  He had been united with her on emerging from adolescence. She had dazzled him less by her beauty than the prestige of her family. Without loving her, he had judged it advantageous to obtain her. And as old Icarius, smitten with tenderness for his daughter, did not want to yield her to the caresses of a husband, Ulysses, stimulated by the difficulties, had employed every artifice and all possible charms in order to steal her from him.

  He still remembered the decisive day when, making use of honeyed words, languorous gazes and the passionate silences that are more eloquent and more troubling than any words, he had succeeded in winning the virgin’s consent and taking her to the shore. His ship was waiting for him there, its sails deployed, ready to travel the humid routes to Ithaca.

  Old Icarius, stubborn, and having not yet lost all hope, followed his daughter at his uncertain pace and tried to move her to pity. Then Ulysses, to put an end to it, stopped his ship and left Penelope the liberty to choose between him and
her father. With a modest and passionate movement, the virgin had lowered her veil, thus concealing the blush of her shame, and put her hand in the hand of the hero.

  In the early days of their union, Ulysses had felt tenderness for Penelope, and later, amity, but he did not remember having loved her passionately. He had, on the contrary, taken pleasure in introducing captives into his bed during the adventurous siege, when the infidelity of Helen had kept the Achaeans assembled before Troy. Even more recently, sharing the bed of the lively and mobile Circe or holding the nymph of Ogygia in his arms,4 he had completely forgotten his wife and savored without remorse or concern the varied pleasures that sensuality accords.

  No, he had not loved her during the adversity, and he scarcely loved her any more when he saw her again on his return.

  Far more than the possession of Penelope, it was vengeance, the recuperation of his kingdom, the enjoyment of the immense flocks and treasures guarded by the faithful Eurycleia, that had interested Ulysses and caused him to act. Even at the last moment, when he went after the carnage of the suitors to repose with his wife on the high bed, he had only experienced affection for her.

  It is, therefore by virtue of having known her to be unfaithful and possessed by numerous lovers, of having divined and discovered the traces of other caresses on her body, that I now feel this devouring flame, this continuous haunting, this keen and unappeasable amour?

  Ulysses thought that, with amazement, and it appeared to him incomprehensible and absurd. For his mind, open to reason and to logic, only thought of acting after reflection. Misunderstanding instinct, he believed that he only possessed what he understood, but he had given birth and originated within himself, for the first time, to the source of all refined woes and subtle torments: analytical intelligence.