Now, careful! Don’t call on the gods unless you want their help. They don’t like it. Then when you really need them, you can call and call but they won’t answer. I’ve told you that before.
TELEMACHUS
(Patiently)
Yes, Mother.
PENELOPE
Oh darling, don’t make me sound as if I were a general or something. I don’t order you around: I’m just—I’m just trying to teach you the real facts of life. It’s so hard for a woman to be a father!
(She tries to laugh.)
Where’s Eumaeus, I wonder? I sent Clia to fetch him.
TELEMACHUS
I bet she’s giving him a bath, first. He smells a bit high.
(He becomes suddenly worried.)
His shack is awful. Not the kind of place you’d want to visit.
PENELOPE
(Surprised and amused)
I wasn’t thinking of paying old Eumaeus a visit in his shack.
(She watches TELEMACHUS’ relief.)
But what do you find so interesting there?
TELEMACHUS
Nothing. Nothing. Except Eumaeus. It’s good to have a man to talk to. There’s only women in this house—or Philetius over at the stable, and he’s dumb. It really is pretty lonely here.
PENELOPE
Yes, it’s lonely... But I hope all the travelling you did last year hasn’t unsettled you.
TELEMACHUS
But you said travelling abroad was good for my education.
PENELOPE
If it doesn’t make you discontented with home.
TELEMACHUS
When Father was here, it wasn’t lonely. Was it?
(PENELOPE shakes her head.)
TELEMACHUS
No, there were plenty of real men around then. All his men. They were good fighters and hunters, weren’t they?
PENELOPE
And good farmers, too. They could plough a straight furrow and raise a fine crop.
TELEMACHUS
Now, Mother, don’t start hinting again. You’re always giving double meanings to everything.
PENELOPE
Well, someone has got to teach you to keep a balance. You don’t want to grow up to be like those men downstairs, do you?
TELEMACHUS
Mother!
PENELOPE
Life isn’t all hunting or fighting, or trying to live at someone else’s expense. There are houses to be built, and people to be fed and clothed. There are children to be raised; and music to be made; and poetry to be sung.
TELEMACHUS
(Fingering the knife at his belt)
My father was a hunter. A hunter and a soldier.
PENELOPE
Ulysses was many things. He was the son of a prince, but he came here and settled this land and founded his own family. He was a good farmer, too. He could plough the straightest furrow—
(She pauses, looks slyly at TELEMACHUS, adds softly)
Yes, he was ploughing, on the day the draft board came to get him.
TELEMACHUS
The draft board? Why, Mother, you know Father volunteered the day the Trojan War broke out. Why, he was the best fighter in the whole army!
PENELOPE
I think so... But he was also a very clever man.
TELEMACHUS
That’s why the army put him in Intelligence. I know all that! Why, he invented the Trojan Horse. He won the war!
PENELOPE
Yes, once he was in the army, he fought; and he fought well.
TELEMACHUS
I don’t like the way you say that.
PENELOPE
It may be that your knowledge is just a little one-sided. It seems that Clia and I haven’t given you a very balanced picture of your father. It’s about time you admired him for the way he could plough a field as well as for the way he could capture a city with a wooden horse.
TELEMACHUS
(Disgusted)
Plough a field!
PENELOPE
(Sharply)
And build a house. Who built this house? Your father, working with his men. Who cleared the forests and made fields out of wilderness? Who sowed the crops and planted the vines?
TELEMACHUS
And fought the brigands, and hunted. He killed a wild boar with this knife, all by himself, when he was my age. And he got wounded, too—the boar’s tusk slit his leg—
(He scores his own leg, from below to above his knee.)
just there, and left a scar to this day.
PENELOPE
Darling, might I remind you I’ve been listening to Clia’s stories about Ulysses longer than you have? And considering you were three months old when you last saw your father, it’s possible that some incidents may have escaped you.
TELEMACHUS
Oh, now, Mother! You don’t have to go all stiff-starched... I’m sorry... Look, I’ll even listen to what you were going to tell me about the draft board.
PENELOPE
I don’t think I shall tell you.
TELEMACHUS
I said I was sorry.
PENELOPE
Perhaps you aren’t old enough to understand. When you are a man, you can be told. But now, you only want to hear the things you wish to believe.
TELEMACHUS
But I want to hear this story. Please...
PENELOPE
Well, if you must hear it... We’ll begin with Helen, who started all our troubles anyway. She left her husband and ran away with Paris—
TELEMACHUS
(Impatiently)
—to Troy. I know all the dates and everything about that. Tell me about Father!
PENELOPE
He said that if Helen preferred Paris to her husband, then it was none of our business.
TELEMACHUS
But—
PENELOPE
Yes, I know. People went around saying it was “a Trojan insult to Greek womanhood”; although, personally, I never felt in the least insulted. I don’t think any other woman did, either.
TELEMACHUS
But, we had to go and get Helen back.
PENELOPE
Very flattering for Helen, wasn’t it?
TELEMACHUS
Now, Mother, that isn’t—
PENELOPE
Yes, I’m bitter. And why not?
TELEMACHUS
I don’t like you that way; Father wouldn’t, either.
PENELOPE
(Chastened, half-smiling)
You know what? You’re very good for me... But I still think it was the stupidest reason for a war that ever was. Why, Helen didn’t even want to come back to her husband. All right, all right, Telemachus. Don’t look at me as if I were a green-eyed cat with long claws. I’m just putting you in the picture, or else you’ll never understand about the draft board.
TELEMACHUS
(Tries to look wise, nods understandingly, and then— as he suddenly notices the uneaten cakes and honey— becomes his age again)
Oh! Cakes and honey! Don’t you want them? Are you sure?
(PENELOPE shakes her head, smiling, as TELEMACHUS reaches for the cakes.)
All right—Father was drafted. Then what?
PENELOPE
He got an exemption because he happened to marry me.
(TELEMACHUS stops eating for a moment and looks at her.)
Then the draft was extended. To include all married men who had no children. But you were born. So, we got another exemption.
(TELEMACHUS, who has started to eat again, pauses.)
Then, a little later, all men had to go into the army.
TELEMACHUS
And Father went off to the war.
PENELOPE
No... You see, he hadn’t been feeling too well. So he applied for another exemption. As a P.N., this time.
TELEMACHUS
P.N.?
PENELOPE
Psychoneurotic, darling... You know...
(She taps her forehead lightly.)
TELEMACHUS
Father?
PENELOPE
Don’t worry—and finish the cake; it’s the last we’ll see for some time—your father wasn’t crazy, not one bit. He was the sanest man I ever knew.
TELEMACHUS
Then why a P.N.? He wasn’t a coward!
PENELOPE
(Angry)
If he had been a coward, would I tell you all this? No, I’d be hiding it from you, covering it up. Ulysses wasn’t a coward.
But he was stubborn. And he didn’t want to go off and fight for good old Helen or any other runaway wife.
TELEMACHUS
(Relieved, and finishing the cake with pleasure)
He was clever, wasn’t he?
PENELOPE
And so was the draft board. When he wouldn’t go to them, they came to him.
TELEMACHUS
They travelled all the way to this island? Boy! That was something!
PENELOPE
When they arrived, Ulysses was working in the big field. And I was standing, with you in my arms, watching him as he ploughed. Some of the draft board he knew, but he looked at them blankly, as if he saw straight through them; no smile, no expression; and he went on ploughing, like a sleepwalker. Back and forward, back and forward, along the straight furrows. “Doesn’t he know anyone?” one of his old friends said to me. And I looked at him with tears in my eyes for an answer. But the chairman of the draft board—later, he got killed in the war; wasn’t that too bad?—anyway, he suddenly lifted you right out of my arms, carried you across the furrows, and laid you down on the earth just in front of Ulysses. Ulysses paused, and swerved, and the sharp edge of the ploughshare missed you... That is how they knew he was sane. And Ulysses knew he was beaten. He left the plough, and picked you up, and brought you back to me. He went away, that day.
(Her voice falters, and she can’t go on.)
TELEMACHUS
(Slowly, terribly serious)
I’m not sure if I understand that story. But one thing’s sure—he loved me. Didn’t he? He loved me, even if I wasn’t old enough to know who he was. And what’s more, he was a hero when he did start fighting. He was a hero, wasn’t he?
PENELOPE
They say he was the greatest of them all. So that makes him all the braver, because he did not want to fight in that war.
TELEMACHUS
I’m not sure I understand that, either. I’ve a lot of thinking to do...
PENELOPE
Then I’ve given you a good lesson, today. School’s over; class dismissed.
(Laughing, now)
What about going down to Eumaeus’ shack and picking up the fishing rod? Catch me a speckled trout, Telemachus. I’ll eat it for supper.
(She blows a kiss as TELEMACHUS opens the door. There are sounds of men’s voices. He turns back, quickly, closing the door.)
TELEMACHUS
I forgot! They’re packing up.
PENELOPE
... The men? Why didn’t you tell me before this?
TELEMACHUS
I meant to—I just forgot—somehow. They sent off their servants this morning. Didn’t you hear them riding away?
PENELOPE
You forgot! Or were you too busy thinking about something else? Leaving... Or is this a trick? They could pretend to each other that they were leaving and then come back singly. That would be far more dangerous for us. Together, they are a check on each other. Singly—
TELEMACHUS
I’d kill them. I could manage them singly.
PENELOPE
No, you couldn’t. In another year or two, yes. But not now.
TELEMACHUS
I have this knife. And I’ve some weapons hidden. And then I’ve got Father’s Great Bow—the one hanging on the wall downstairs. You know what? The men have never seen one of those big bows. They look at it every day and think it’s an old ox yoke or something.
(He loves this.)
But when no one was in the Hall, I’ve lifted the bow down.
(PENELOPE looks startled.)
Yes, I know it takes strength, so I’m stronger than you think. I bet I can string it, too.
PENELOPE
Not even those men downstairs could bend that bow, Telemachus. It takes years of practice. Years. Only Ulysses could.
(She puts out a hand and touches his shoulder gently, as if to cheer him up.)
TELEMACHUS
Don’t worry! We’ll take care of them somehow.
PENELOPE
We? I shan’t be much use in a fight.
TELEMACHUS
I said don’t worry. They won’t last long now, one way or the other.
PENELOPE
Why, you aren’t afraid of them any more.
(She looks at him, puzzled. Then the door opens, letting in the usual hubbub from the distance and CLIA enters with EUMAEUS shambling after her. He is not entirely repulsive. He has been very handsome in his youth. He is wearing a blanket around him, which keeps shifting out of place. He keeps pulling at it, and—at the moment—is in one of his savage moods. He keeps looking at CLIA, and mutters to himself.)
CLIA
Well, now, isn’t that a nice family picture? And what’s this we’ve strapped to our waist? Your father’s hunting knife?
TELEMACHUS
(Drawing himself up and slipping away from PENELOPE)
How do I look?
(He squares his shoulders, and puts one hand on the knife.)
CLIA
The living image of your father.
PENELOPE
(Softly)
Oh, Clia!
TELEMACHUS
(Swinging round to face PENELOPE)
Don’t I look like him? When he was my age?
PENELOPE
I—I didn’t know Ulysses when he was seventeen.
TELEMACHUS
But if I don’t look like him, how will he know me?
(He glances in embarrassment at EUMAEUS, who is standing quite still and expressionless at this moment.)
I mean—if he comes back.
CLIA
He’ll know you at once. Besides, you’re wearing his knife, aren’t you?
PENELOPE
(Speaking quickly, as she looks out of the window)
The sun is reaching high into the sky, Telemachus.
TELEMACHUS
Oh yes—the sun—well, I’d better be leaving.
(He starts to go out, passing EUMAEUS.)
See you soon?
(He looks quickly back at his mother, who pretends to be studying the embroidery on its frame. CLIA has noticed nothing wrong.)
EUMAEUS
As soon as Clia gives me back my clothes. You go ahead. Had a nice chat with your mother?
TELEMACHUS
Yes. Yes—just a nice chat.
(They exchange a small reassuring sign, TELEMACHUS leaves, his step eager, calling over his shoulder to his mother)
Good-bye now!
(He closes the door with a decided bang.)
PENELOPE
It’s all right, Eumaeus. You can relax. He gave nothing away.
(EUMAEUS, and CLIA, too, turn to stare at her. She goes on, crisply, ignoring their looks.)
Clia, I hear that the men are leaving. Is it true?
CLIA
Some are packing, some are squabbling about what they’ll take with them.
PENELOPE
Then, why aren’t you downstairs, keeping an eye on them?
CLIA
And leave you alone with him?
(She points in horror to EUMAEUS.)
EUMAEUS
You took my tunic away from me, woman—
CLIA
And filthy it was.
EUMAEUS
And you forced me into a bath, and you scrubbed my body, and laughed at me—you and the other maids.
CLIA
Well, you hardly came up to our expectations, after all the grand tales you’ve spread about yourself.
EUMAEUS
And you made me wear this shroud, and didn’t give me a pin to hold it together.
(He has to clutch it suddenly to keep it from slipping.)
Isn’t that indignity enough, without pointing that long thin claw at me?
PENELOPE
Clia, please go.
EUMAEUS
And congratulate yourself that, today, you scrubbed the back of a prince.
CLIA
Prince! You’re a swine of a swineherd. Your mother was a sow, your father a hog. And now you fondle a pig on your filthy pallet of straw and call him brother.
PENELOPE
Clia!
(CLIA stamps out angrily, PENELOPE looks away for a moment, and then turns to greet EUMAEUS as if he had just entered the room, and all those last minutes were wiped out.)
I’m so glad you came to see me. You’re looking very smart—is this a new style in tunics?
EUMAEUS
(Recovering himself from CLIA’s attack)
Perhaps I’ll start a new fashion.
(He looks down at the length of the blanket.)
Not every man’s legs are handsome enough for the short tunic. Or would it be a pity to hide the handsome legs? How could a woman then know what she’s getting?
PENELOPE
(Amused)
Eumaeus, you can’t shock me. So don’t waste the strength you’ve got left.
(EUMAEUS grins, and tries to bow, but is hindered by the blanket. It is still unwinding.)
EUMAEUS
(Tugging the blanket back in place)
Sweet suffering Jupiter!
PENELOPE
(Watching him)
You’re nervous, Eumaeus. You’re just a little afraid of me, today. Why? What are you hiding?
EUMAEUS
Hiding? Nothing, Penelope—
(He opens his arms; the blanket starts unwinding, and he clutches it again.)
Nothing except myself.
PENELOPE
(Suddenly serious)
If you want to lie to me, I suppose you can. I’ve no claim on your loyalty—I’ve only fed you and given you a job so that you could at least earn an honest living.
Home is the Hunter Page 4
