“There is no remedy against amour. Penelope alone could open your eyes and accord you the exact vision of how little she is, and of her true and relative value.” Then, preventing Ulysses from replying, he went on: “I want to save you even so, because you are dear to me and I feel responsible for the misfortunes and difficulties that are accumulating over your head. I shall therefore accompany you as far as the rock of Ithaca and I shall remain there in order to accomplish your complete cure.
“As for you, do not cease to invoke the gods: Minerva your protectress; Jupiter who commands the clouds; and above all Venus, who weaves and unravels all the webs of passion. If they come to your aid, you will soon be able to savor life with measure, seeing Penelope clearly, and without the deceptive and transformative veil that Amour, the marvelous and perilous Amour, deploys before your eyes.
V
Throughout the voyage, solicited by Ulysses, the Centaur talked about amour. Having professed for a long time, he had acquired the art of simplifying explanations and rendering them clear and striking.
Thus, in the autumn of life, after having learned to guide himself and defend himself, to conquer cities and deceive men, Ulysses was instructed in the difficult sciences of the heart.
“There are two sorts of amorous desires,” the Centaur told him, “those which produce dolor and those which engender crimes. Both throw disarray into the human soul.”
He also said to him:
“The first effect of passion is to steal the sight of the beloved object, which, having penetrated into the intimacy of our substance, escapes any examination henceforth. There is nothing in common between the real woman that we love and the image that we have of her. That is why the amorous malady offers no purchase to any remedy. Penelope dwells in a forbidden region, in the depths of your heart.
He also said:
Amour expels us from ourselves. It empties our imagination and our mind of any foreign object, and then it installs itself there and remains the master. Conquered by an intrusive and omnipotent image, we feel alienated from ourselves, dispossessed of our past, of our cares, our joys and our aspirations.
And the Centaur added:
“We have no influence over the person that we love and who makes us suffer. We are the defenseless flesh and she is the trenchant blade. She wounds us without our being able to protect ourselves from her.”
Then he continued:
“A ferment of hatred is at the foundation of every amour, and without that ferment no true passion can arise and prosper. Ordinarily hidden beneath a flood of tenderness, the hatred only becomes perceptible and evident at the moment of the caress. Anyone who has seen people making love on a bed cannot forget that there is a contest, a loss of control and a cruelty in the sensual attitudes. A destructive intention seems to be the nub of lust, which is, to tell the truth, a sacred fury that partakes as much of the bite as the kiss.”
And he went on:
“We demand of the object of our amour to be paid in return, but in reality, if she obeys us, we never forgive her. What we always forgive her is making us suffer.”
And he concluded:
“To judge by appearances, amour uniquely seeks intercourse. Fundamentally, it only acquires substance and aliments itself on cries, tears and blood. It creates life incessantly with torn and palpitating flesh. That is why we can say that every being brought into the world, every child that is born, is a product of hatred, dolor and violence.”
Ulysses protested: “Gods! Why then do mortals run after amour?” And he tore his long hair as a sign of fear, despair and perplexity.
But the Centaur replied to him:
“Mortals know amour, and that is a special benefit of the divinity. For amour is the salt of life, its unique flower, and its excellent and inimitable ornament. Thanks to amour, the living person can be compared to the perfect eglantine, the modest violet, the splendid anemone, to everything that blossoms, becomes odorous and colored in spring, to iridescent nights and crimson sunrises. Blessed be amour!”
Agitating on the ship and striking his face with his hands, Ulysses was still moaning. “I am lost now! Everything seems confused before my eyes. I no longer understand…I no longer understand anything.”
But, tranquilly stretched out on the vessel, Chiron replied:
“Life has not been created expressly for you to understand it. It laughs at your reason. Destructive and creative, it hastens toward its ends, easily accepting al the materials that fall under its hand, works in turn with smiles, with sighs, with blood and with joy, amid orgy, exaltation, cries and alarm. Very fortunate are those who never see the sunlight, also fortunate are those who die young, soon escaping the torments of existence. But thrice miserable are those who want to penetrate the mystery of things and reflect it in their poor and narrow reason!”
Discoursing in this fashion, they arrived in Ithaca.
Penelope rejoiced in Ulysses’ return.
“Were you anxious about my precipitate departure?” the hero interrogated, hoping that she was and wanting to be assured of it.
“I wasn’t at all anxious,” she replied. “I’ve known your prudence for a long time. On learning that you had left the island I told myself that you could not have acted thus without necessity.”
He sighed, disappointed. “But at least you missed me?” he said. “Did you wish for my return?”
“What wife does not wish for the return of her husband, and how could I have done otherwise? But I’ve employed the time during your absence in supervising the slaves picking olives and enabling the precious oil to flow from the press. Thus, the days seemed short to me.”
Ulysses sighed again.
He had put Chiron in the hands of women who took him to the bath and offered him pure water and perfumes.
The Centaur’s arrival was the marvel of all the hamlets perched on the rocks of Ithaca. The chiefs came to visit and salute that being, equidistant from a human being and a spirited horse, that master equal in wisdom to the Immortals, whose renown haunted the Achaean acropoleis.
Chiron sought the confidence and the commerce of Penelope, who took pleasure in his troubling aspect, his unexpected movements and his substantial and pondered conversation.
In order to captivate her, the Centaur told her marvelous stories. He told her about the misfortunes of his mother Philyra, smitten with Saturn, suffering the jealousy of Rhea and begging the gods to transform her into a tender floret in order to escape the evil of living. He also told her about the battles between the Centaurs and the Lapiths during the wedding celebrations of Pirithous, and then the latter’s exploits in company with Theseus, their exemplary amity, and how they abducted the beautiful Helen, for whose favors they drew lots.
Those stories, which were familiar and familial, charmed Penelope and rendered Chiron indispensable to her. So, she gave him all her attention and all her confidence.
And the Centaur was satisfied.
Ulysses, who had not emerged from his desire and his preoccupations, asked him: “What should I do? You promised to cure me. How are you going to do it?”
He replied: “Let yourself live and don’t nurture any worry. The enterprise is my concern.”
After having captivated the ear and gained the consideration of Penelope, the Centaur began to converse with her about Ulysses’ past. She knew about her husband’s voyages, but she was unaware of the exact circumstances. Chiron narrated them to her, lingering above all over the erotic adventures, He gave her minute details of how easily women fell in love with Ulysses and how Circe, with lascivious forms, powerful philters and strange amours had kept and caressed the hero in her bed. In the same way, he spoke at length and vividly about Calypso, the charming goddess whose arms had enclosed the sighing breast of Ulysses for years.
Soon, from the mouth of the Centaur, who strove to render all the ardor of the amorous exploits, Penelope learned that throughout the twenty years of his absence, her husband had been the tender object coveted by
all the mortal woman whose beauty and grace were celebrated by Renown. She also knew that Ulysses responded ardently to the multiple passions he inspired. He had given amour for amour, caress for caress, and, untiring, supple and valorous, inflaming the modest Nausicaa, cutting a swathe though the captives of Ilium, and had even charmed and conquered the charmers, the Sirens.
For the Centaur exaggerated, deliberately adding fictitious adventures to the true ones. His intention was to create an impure and lascivious legend for Ulysses and surround him with a passionate aureole.
Penelope felt troubled by these stories and interested by them. Since her marriage, she had not ceased to believe in the fidelity of the king of Ithaca. As soon as he was her husband she had no longer looked at him, having fixed him in her imagination once and for all and being sure that he would always belong to her. But now, through the admirable narratives of the Centaur, Ulysses was transfigured in her eyes. The testimony of so many women victim to passion attested to Penelope that the king of Ithaca was ornamented by hidden attractions and triumphant gifts; and she ended up being proud of possessing such a husband.
And as soon as she considered Ulysses as an object of covetousness and desire, she feared losing him. Then, fearing to lose him, she paid attention to him, thought about him often, and pleased herself thereby.
Now she came to lean on his shoulder and, gazing at him proudly, she seemed to be saying: This is the man that I have subjugated and who loves me, while all women sigh after him fruitlessly.
“Don’t be too sure of that,” the Centaur suggested to her then, having divined her thought. “He is whimsical, changing, devoted to infidelity. One can never say that one holds him securely. He escapes incessantly, ready to fly to other beds.”
And he gave her to understand that in his latest voyage, Ulysses had conquered and bent to his will the woman who had bloodied Greece and Asia: Helen, the ravishing Helen.
A cloud passed before Penelope’s eyes. And the Centaur, lying on his back and rubbing his forefeet, said to himself: She’s ready; she’s ready to love him.
Then, changing enterprise, he went to Ulysses, who was still burning with the fires of passion. Feigning discouragement and despair, the Centaur said to him:
“In spite of my meditations and my efforts, I can truly find no means of coming to your aid. Not only does Penelope remain insensible to your amour, but she even lacks esteem toward you.”
“Any hope of a cure is lost for me, then?”
“Not yet, provided that you will obey me blindly. You’ve declared to me that you felt that you were strong enough to kill Penelope in order no longer to sense the obsession of amour. I won’t ask so much of you. But treat her rudely, show her hostility, in order to awaken her amour.”
“How can I make her hate me?”
“By brutality, by violence. Create faults, forget your principles, be unjust, and don’t hesitate to go as far as barbarity.”
“And what good can that do me? Your design appears to me to be absurd.”
“Carry out my orders without examining them and without understanding them. Have you not promised to submit to them blindly, and are you not convinced that I can see further than you?” And as Ulysses hesitated: “In any case, if you don’t want to follow my advice, I’ll go away, abandoning you to your destiny.”
“I’ll obey. Tell me more exactly in what manner I ought to behave.”
“Repress for a while the amour that you have for Penelope. Disguise your sentiments, as the perfidious Helen, before the wooden horse, disguised her voice, imitating those of your wives in order to make you speak.”
“But how can I behave harshly toward the woman who dominates my life?” groaned Ulysses, in a final protest. “A single disapproving gesture coming from her makes me tremble.”
The Centaur remained unshakable and, in order to convince his disciple, he threatened to quit the island.
“For what can I reproach Penelope?” exclaimed Ulysses.
“Her conduct toward the suitors, her complaisance. Then too, you have no need to make her reasonable reproaches. On the contrary, be unjust, absurd, cruel, capricious, unpredictable and inhumane.
Ulysses obeyed, reluctantly. Under the insistence and in accordance with the advice of Chiron, he neglected Penelope and pretended to devote himself to other concerns. He spoke to her brutally and tried to make her ashamed of her past. As she fell silent, the hero, utterly loud exclamations, reproached her for her impotence to defend herself. He did not quit her until tears were steaming from her eyes.
“That’s not yet sufficient,” Chiron said to him. “You’re soft; your long voyages have made you effeminate. Where are the impetuosity and rage of the valorous Ulysses of old?”
And in order to fortify him in violence, the Centaur made him savor a delicious wine, a gift of Bacchus, a divine liquor that enveloped and disturbed his senses. Under the influence of the stimulating drunkenness, spurred by Chiron, Ulysses had moments of cruelty. He covered Penelope with scorn, reminding her incessantly of what she had done that was reprehensible, and also what she might have done. He arrived at the point of being able to inflame himself seriously with anger, and to believe his own words. He maltreated her.
Finally, one day, having drunk beyond a measure and pliant to the suggestions of the Centaur, he brandished his dagger, a present from King Alcinous, and wounded Penelope slightly in the breast. Then, red with confusion, having sobered up, he left the banqueting hall, supported by Chiron.
Tears were flowing from his eyes.
“What have I become?” he groaned. “I’m a wretch.”
“I’ll go examine her wound,” said Chiron, “and I’ll cure her. Henceforth, I won’t demand any more effort from you. Show toward your wife the sentiments that are natural to you. We’ll see what will happen.”
He went to care for the queen. Inanimate, pale and bloodless, Penelope seemed to be at the gates of Tartarus. She only returned to life slowly, as if regretfully.
Finally, her eyes opened, and were dazzled by seeing the daylight again. Her first question was: “Where is Ulysses?”
Chiron advised her not to talk.
“It’s necessary that I see him!” she insisted. “I don’t want to die far from him.”
Ulysses came running then, still frightened by his own work of destruction.
“Forgive me, daughter of Icarius,” he implored. “I acted like an insensate.”
“I love you. Are you not my master, and ought I not to welcome as a precious gift everything that comes from you, even death?”
She had a pale smile on her lips; she was happy to see him, incapable of being sated by his presence.
The long convalescence was extended in a kind of marvelous ecstasy for Penelope. She cherished him now with all her might. On the day when she had learned how lovable he was, and what power of seduction he exercised over women, she had already conceived a passionate interest for him. When, subsequently, she saw that Ulysses had withdrawn his love, she was afraid, and her tenderness had been increased by it. Finally seeing herself scorned, she had admired him more and ended up fearing him.
With each dolorous tear she shed, her amour revealed itself to be greater and more submissive.
He no longer adores me, but he is adorable, she said to herself.
She loved him above all for his faults, which rendered him more human and brought him closer to her. Gradually, she ended up by finding a strange sweetness in suffering, and lent herself to it with a troubled and troubling mixture of sensuality and dread.
She became habituated to considering herself as his slave. At times, when, becoming violent, he raised a brutal hand to her, Penelope thought: He’s very cruel and he takes pleasure in doing me harm.
But, far from irritating her, that thought appeared to make her tender. An irresistible desire to prostrate herself at Ulysses’ feet took hold of her, and her amour became more vehement.
Finally, at the moment when he struck her and she felt th
at she was about to faint, she murmured faintly: “How happy I am to die for him!”
And from then on she was his, in a servile manner.
It was now her turn to think incessantly about Ulysses. She interrogated him, fearfully, about his affection, orientated herself toward his desires and prompt to satisfy them.
As for the hero, he could not get over his wonderment, and without fully understanding the amorous blossoming of Penelope, he responded abundantly to her effusions and her tenderness—with the consequence that ineffable days opened before them.
“How content I am,” Ulysses said to the Centaur. “She loves me! What does the rest matter? Everything is smiling at me henceforth.”
Penelope came to huddle at her master’s feet. She gazed at him rapturously and rejoiced in cheerful thoughts that were reflected in Ulysses’ eyes, just as she was anxious when a sad cloud appeared therein. Not allowing him to draw away for an instant, she attached herself to his footsteps, collected the most beautiful flowers for him and mixed the finest flour with perfumed honey, with her own hands, in order to prepare his favorite cakes. Ulysses did not have time to formulate his desires before she had already granted them. At every moment, radiant, enlacing her arms around the hero’s waist, she said to him: “Is it true is it true that you love me?”
And when he had replied, she repeated the same question again.
VI
Long months had gone by, and the Centaur still remained on Ithaca. He did not appear content to have reckoned with the problem and, far from congratulating himself, one might have thought that he was cursing his science and his infallible clairvoyance.
Nothing is more disappointing, he thought, than foreseeing everything and always succeeding. There is, in truth, no success or real triumph without preliminary effort, doubt and uncertainty. Always sure of attaining my goal, I am ignorant of divine hope, in the same way that, being able to foresee events, I am deprived of the sublime attractions of novelty. My science forbids me the unexpected that life brings at every moment.
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