So, unable now to explain than sudden sentimental deviation, that impetuous and sudden passion for Penelope, he was frightened by it.
The gods have pursued me with their anger for long time, he thought. I am the man who has suffered from it more than any other. It could be, therefore, that the irrational evil by which I am alarmed comes from the gods, and that it is a final vengeance of Neptune, the inauguration of a new series of ordeals and adversities.
And Ulysses wished incessantly for an enlightenment that would enable him to emerge from his uncertainties, which would guide him toward comprehension and aid him to attain the intellectual level-headedness indispensable to anyone who wants to render himself master of events.
Wandering and meditating in that fashion, he always ended up by finding himself back at his palace. For like consciousness, the unconscious—his obscure impulsions as well as his rational desires—drove him and led him to the places where Penelope was.
Having entered the palace, he searched for her impatiently, and discovered her in the nuptial and impenetrable redoubt to which only the faithful slave Actoris had access. His first impulse was to throw himself at her feet and say to her: “Why is it that I love you? What devastating force, what mysterious charm enchains me thus and attaches me to you, in spite of my resolutions, in spite of everything that could determine me to hate and destroy you? What new and active virtue is hidden in your flesh, then, what troubling and captivating flower has been born of your adulterous embraces?”
But he remained silent and restrained himself. In the course of his life, rich in experience, he had learned that spontaneous words habitually provoke disasters, and that there is a deleterious ferment in sincerity and truth that prepares baleful and tumultuous futures for us.
He contented himself with approaching his wife and taking her hand.
“Do you love me, Penelope? Do you love me?”
He posed that question with a dolorous precipitation, with a heated desire full of dread. It was visible that life or death, joy or torment, depended on the response that he was about to receive.
“Are you not my husband, and is it not my duty to love you, dear Ulysses?” said Penelope.
Her voice was calm and tranquil, without enthusiasm. And she added: “Why do you repeat the same question incessantly?”
Then Ulysses became conscious that nothing vehement or passionate filled or agitated Penelope’s heart. A despairing equilibrium held it far from doubt, far from dolor, far from anxiety. And, in sensing how superior his wife as to him by virtue of that tranquility, how she would be able by a single word to render him equal to the immortals or precipitate him into darkness, Ulysses was afraid.
He replied: “Why, indeed, do I persist in always asking you the same thing?” He paused, and then went on: “Do I know? Do I know myself?”
He darted a distracted glance around him.
He saw then the bed that his powerful hands had constructed, and which dominated the room. He remembered the olive tree that had once blossomed in the same place, and around which, on the night of his wedding, he had first amassed and cemented stones, building the conjugal chamber. The trunk of the tree was destined to serve as the support of the bed. He had, therefore, cut off the bushy crown and the green branches, and had then placed the large planks on which he had subsequently lavished gold, ivory, and finally, crimson and soft hides that summoned slumber and caresses.
That bed, supported on the still-living trunk, whose roots went directly and profoundly into the earth, had once been for him a place of repose. He had savored tranquil and joyful pleasures there. Now it appeared to him to be redoubtable and terrible, more incomparably bewitching than those of witches and goddesses, as dangerous as the bed on which Vulcan imprisoned Venus, revealing her adulterous amours.
Not being able to retain or to master desire, wanting to drawn Penelope to him but fearful of forgetting himself once again in her delightful arms, Ulysses fled from the room like a madman. Once outside, he started walking, anxious and unhappy.
An irresistible need drive him to determine his woe and dominate it. It was necessary to end it.
Having arrived at the harbor, he perceived Noemon, the skillful pilot, who was in the process of preparing his curved vessel, the tall mast of which stood up proudly against the sky.
Making a sudden resolution, Ulysses then ordered Noemon to run to the palace and search there for sealed goatskins full of wine, fine wheat, and everything necessary for a long voyage.
As he was habituated himself to the métier of mariner, he deployed the sail with his own hands, attaching it with two strong tethers. Finally, when Noemon returned, followed by two other companions, the hero embarked, without informing anyone, and allowed the wind to fill the noisy sail, precipitately.
Thus Ulysses drew away once again from his beloved island, and the vessel cleaved the waves rapidly.
The hero went forth, without any design, abandoning the known shores, seeing the liberating sea opening up before him.
III
In the beginning, Ulysses wanted to lower the sail before the harbor of fortunate Pylos, in order to ask the advice of the venerable Nestor, son of Neleus. Then he thought that Nestor had a heart chilled by old age. He must have lost the meaning and forgotten the range of passion.
He therefore allowed himself to be guided by the winds, the friends of vessels, and he soon reached the abrupt but fertile coast of Gythion. He disembarked there and, making use of impetuous horses, he arrived with his companions before the walls of superb Lacedaemon. His heart palpitating with emotion, he went into it and approached the palace of Menelaus.
The faithful Eteoneus, son of Boethous, saw him first and conducted him personally into the banqueting hall, resplendent in crimson and gold, where Menelaus, having been informed, was waiting for him with sculpted cups and bowls laden with meats.
The reacquaintance of the two heroes took place amid embraces, tears and the evocation of common memories.
They had parted outside the smoking ruins of Ilium, and each of them, borne by his destiny, had wandered far from his homeland in strange lands strewn with perils. It was Ulysses who first recounted to his host all the obstacles that Neptune had provoked on his route. He related his victory over the Cyclops, and his adventures with the King of the Laestrygonians, Circe, the Sirens and the isle of Ogygia,
In his turn, Menelaus told him how, the victim of tempests and the hatred of the winds, he had traveled in Cyprus, Phoenicia and Egypt, reaching as far as the land of the Ethiopians and the deserts of Libya.
In seeing how destiny had imposed similar peregrinations upon them at the time of their return, they felt the bonds that united them more narrowly.
Finally, when Menelaus, shedding abundant tears and tearing his hair had told Ulysses how his brother had perished under the perfidious blade of the adulterer Aegisthus, they broke bread together and, spurred on by hunger and emotion, they prolonged more than usual the satisfactions and contentments of feasting.
Ulysses was surprised not to see Helen appear, but Menelaus informed him that she was supervising the slaves who were gathering flax in the fields...
After the just repose that the fatigues of the voyage had summoned, the king of Ithaca found his host again by the portico, where he was respiring the freshness animated by the dusk.
“Now, valorous Ulysses,” Menelaus interrogated, “you whose sagacity caused divine will to bend, who permitted the Greeks to accomplish all the fatalities necessary for the taking of Ilium, tell me what new design is drawing your steps away from your homeland. Why have you decided to tread foreign lands for a second time? Scarcely victorious over your numerous enemies, here you are, breaking once again, voluntarily, the delights of the peace of your return.”
For a few moments, Ulysses remained silent and hesitant. He gazed distractedly at the garment ornamented with golden plates, the rich brodequins dyed with Tyrian purple, and the sword engraved with a depiction of a lion-hunt—e
verything that heightened the splendor of Menelaus’ natural aristocratic beauty. Then, desirous of relieving himself by communicating his trouble, he commenced:
“Alas, friend equal to a brother, you are mistaken in lending me your own happiness in believing that I have conquered peace and that I could render the enemy gods favorable and benevolent. Certainly, it’s true that I finally landed in Ithaca with my vessels laden with booty. Similarly, I felled the enemies who were pillaging my palace gloriously. But the equilibrium of the soul I have not found.
“I would rather have been battling the Cyclops again or enduring terrible reverses in the land of the Laestrygonians; my lance and my cunning would have given me purchase over those enemies and I would have been sure of triumphing over them; whereas I am struggling now against an ardent and secret evil, like those that the gods sent to doom humans.
“Such as you see me, Menelaus, I am dispossessed of my former wisdom, my proverbial discernment. Like Ajax the Salaminian, I am acting against reason in loving someone that I ought to hate, in finding so much enjoyment and attraction next to a woman who ought only to be considered as my enemy.”
And, under the seal of secrecy, Ulysses recounted the affront he had received from Penelope, his initial thought of punishing her, and the incomprehensible attraction that she exerted upon him. He described to his friend the passion that the woman inspired in him, a devouring passion that bound his hands, his senses and his understanding, as pirates bind the four limbs of captives before embarking them on their hollow ships.
He concluded by asking for aid and assistance.
“You, Menelaus, who have seen so many peoples, who have wandered in Egypt, which excels in all sciences, who have known the fires of passion, give me advice and dictate my conduct. Is it necessary for me to turn my blade against myself, in order to purge the earth of an insensate burden, or should I rather judge myself sick and have recourse to the healer Aesculapius, son of Apollo?”
Menelaus remained pensive for a long time, his head bowed, gazing at the dusty ground. Then he replied:
“How can I help and aid you, cunning Ulysses, since I have known the same slavery that you describe to me and I am still subservient to it? But I ought to add that I am not suffering from it. I am not naturally orientated toward reflection and the causes of the connections between phenomena have never occupied me. I savor with tranquility what every day brings me, and I leave to the gods, the governors of the Universe, the care and the trouble of thought. My mind, which is habitually somnolent—as is appropriate to anyone who wants to be happy—only awakens before danger. I only reflect in order to acquire, or to defend myself. Nevertheless, I will tell you what has happened to me, in order that you might obtain some appeasement and consolation therefrom.”
And after a moment of silence and meditation, Menelaus went on:
“Having been among the first to depart, you only know imperfectly what followed the taking of Ilium. Discord burst forth between the leaders, whose unique occupation was pillaging and quarreling. Some readied their ships in anger, abandoning their companions, others wanted to remain in order to amass more treasure. All acted secretly and with suspicion. But I only want to confide to you what happened to me, personally, on the supreme day when, the gods of Ilium having deserted their altars, and the Trojans celebrating insensately our false departure, we emerged from the wooden horse, opened the gates of the city and sowed flames and carnage throughout the superb citadel.
“One sole thought, one single objective, had guided me until that day: vengeance. I saw incessantly before my eyes the absent and the dead, all the Achaean heroes who had punished, in seconding me in my enterprise, all those who had abandoned their hearths and their families and had come to expire on foreign soil. It was because of Helen, my unfaithful wife, that we had fought, wandered and suffered. She was the one who had provoked the great torment, by fleeing my bed, forgetting her oaths, and forcing that long and perilous adventure upon us.
“When shall I have succeeded in getting my hands upon her? I repeated to myself. When shall I be able to plunge my sword into the depths of her bosom, sending her cruelly to the dark domains, in order that she will rediscover there, to her shame, Achilles and Patroclus, Hector and Troilus, the great Ajax and the superb Penthesilea, all those who died unjustly and lamentably, victims of her caprice?
“To punish her, to see her at my feet, to spill her blood as the supreme expiation of the offense received—such was my unique aspiration.
“I had begged my brother Agamemnon for a long time to allow me to be the sole judge of my vengeance. ‘Permit me to penetrate first into Priam’s palace,’ I had said to him. ‘I will go straight to the upper rooms, where the women repose, far from any gaze. I shall not take captives there, I shall not raise an injurious hand to undo the girdle of virgins or take possession of their crimson robes. It is my wife that I want to seek there, in order to seize her by her hair, to drag her in the black dust, and to pierce her heart. Then I shall attach her abhorrent cadaver to a chariot before the eyes of all the Achaeans.’
“He permitted me that. Preceding you all at the moment of triumph, therefore, I penetrated into the women’s apartment. They were lying down, weeping and trembling, for the noise of the supreme combat had reached their ears. They divined their fate and were lamenting it. On seeing me, old Hecuba uttered a loud scream and came to embrace my knees. She wanted to implore my pity, but for Andromache, who, pale and bleak, holding Astyanax on her knees, was waiting silently for the accomplishment of destiny.
“Any man who had known a mother, any man having the memory of having played tenderly in his childhood with his sisters, would have felt nothing but a great pity before all those unfortunates, once brought to the heights of felicity and now condemned to follow injurious masters, to share their bed and to serve them ignominiously. But I set aside all emotion. My objective was different. Pushing Hecuba away with both hands, I said to her: ‘No one can set aside the fate that awaits you, unfortunate woman! And if you do not want me to pierce you incontinently with my sword, indicate the retreat of your son’s adulterous companion, the infamous Helen.’
“Hecuba obeyed. She advanced so pitiful that I thought I saw Despair marching at my side. Through chambers covered in cedar and ivory she led me to a distant door and opened it. Then, as she quit me, she said, with a bleak expression: “Go avenge yourself, and avenge us. That is where the destroyer of cities is hiding, the scourge of the world, the woman who has spread mourning through my house and robbed me of five children, all the posterity of Priam, the pride of the earth.’
“Launching myself forward, I went into the room, and immediately, I saw a woman who, fleeing far from the couch where she had been reposing, went to hide behind the group of her slaves. It was Helen! Without even distinguishing her with certainty, I drew my blade and raised it. Anger and satisfaction filled my head and made it resonate like a cymbal.
“Then Helen, who recognized me, advanced her face, in which mute prayers were mingled with a surge of fearful modesty. The light was falling directly upon her, as if expressly to illuminate her naked body. The entire dawn was concentrated upon her. And in contemplating her thus, my hand fell back, as if a divinity were weighing with all its supernatural weight upon my arm to paralyze it. A charm operated within me.
“Do not believe, Ulysses, that I had forgotten Helen’s beauty. I knew at all times that she was, corporeally, the most perfect of Achaean women. However, I sensed that I had the courage, and I had made the decision, to avenge myself. But it was not the same Helen who was now standing before me. It was an unknown woman, with enchanting features, a woman who delighted and dazzled me like wine or like the cherished voice of a mother returning from the tomb to speak to us. Her face, the lines of secret signification that her body formed, what I saw of her breasts and what I divined in the obscure profundities of her loins, troubled and confused my memories. That incomparable Helen I had certainly never had the good fortune to hold
beside me in a bed. How, in any case, could that radiant new woman have a past? She only had a marvelous future.
“To know her, I said to myself then, to touch her body, to draw her to me, to hear my name pronounced by her mouth...
“I stammered: ‘Helen!’ And my heart was hammering, for I feared that she might only be a phantom, and that she would vanish at the sound of my voice.
“Then Helen smiled at me, still ashamed and already reassured. Oh, that smile! It seemed to me that I had been waiting for it anxiously, that it was to see it born on her cheek that I had left green Lacedaemon, that I had traversed the seas, and confronted death in the midst of battles. Like the unfortunate mariners who, having wandered in inhospitable lands, extend their impatient hands toward the natal shore, weeping, laughing and delirious, when it appears to them on the horizon, I leaned recklessly and avidly toward Helen.
“The sword fell from my rigid hand. I understood instantaneously that our suffering, the blood we had shed, our wanderings and our mourning, formed an offering that was due, like the victims, to the divinities.
“And I said to her, believing that I was expressing the truth: ‘It is to see you and to hold you again that I have attempted so much and striven, O Helen. You are worthy of it! If ever irritation and anger came to lad me astray, when I saw my men perish and our ranks thinned, and malady and discord fell upon the Achaeans, it was because you were far away and I could not realize the benefits of your presence. In any case, those who died for you would find their fate worthy of envy if they could see you. For myself, I would have endured further proofs, even harsher, to conquer you. For in you, as in a mirror, I see my homeland again, my dwelling, my fields, my flocks, experiencing in advance all the tumultuous emotions that await me on my return to Lacedaemon.’
“Thus I spoke, O Ulysses, and such was the magical reversion that the sight of Helen produced in me.
“I hesitated later to confess my clemency. I even departed secretly, without seeing my brother Agamemnon again. In order to taken Helen aboard my ship safely, I confounded her with the captives, in such a way that she passed unperceived.
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