Margaret Atwood - The Penelopiad - The Myth of Penelope and Odysseus

Others have noted the fact that I did not dismiss or punish the twelve impudent maids, or shut them up in an outbuilding to grind corn, so I must have been indulging in the same kind of sluttery myself.

But I have explained all that.

A more serious charge is that Odysseus didn’t reveal himself to me when he first returned. He distrusted me, it is said, and wanted to make sure

I wasn’t having orgies in the palace. But the real reason was that he was afraid I would cry tears of joy and thus give him away. Similarly, he had me locked in the women’s quarters with the rest of the women when he was slaughtering the Suitors, and he relied on Eurycleia’s help, not on mine. But he knew me well my tender heart, my habit of dissolving in tears and falling down on thresholds. He simply didn’t want to expose me to dangers and disagreeable sights. Surely that is the obvious explanation for his behaviour.

If my husband had learned of the slanders during our lifetimes, he certainly would have ripped out a few tongues. But there’s no sense in brooding over lost opportunities.

Presented by: The Maids

Prologue: Spoken by Melantho of the Pretty Cheeks:

As we approach the climax, grim and gory

Let us just say: There is another story.

Or several, as befits the goddess Rumour,

Who’s sometimes in a good, or else bad, humour.

Word has it that Penelope the Prissy

Was—when it came to sex—no shrinking sissy!

Some said with Amphinomus she was sleeping.

Masking her lust with gales of moans and weeping;

Others, that each and every brisk contender

By turns did have the fortune to upend her,

By which promiscuous acts the goat-god Pan

Was then conceived, or so the fable ran.

The truth, dear auditors, is seldom certain

But let us take a peek behind the curtain!

Eurycleia: Played by a Maid:

Dear child! I fear you are undone! Alas!

The Master has returned! That’s right he’s back!

Penelope: Played by a Maid:

I knew him as he walked here from afar

By his short legs

Eurycleia:

And I by his long scar!

Penelope:

And now, dear Nurse, the fat is in the fire

He’ll chop me up for tending my desire!

While he was pleasuring every nymph and beauty,

Did he think I’d do nothing but my duty?

While every girl and goddess he was praising,

Did he assume I’d dry up like a raisin?

Eurycleia:

While you your famous loom claimed to be threading,

In fact you were at work within the bedding!

And now there’s ample matter for beheading!

Penelope:

Amphinomus—quick! Down the hidden stairs!

And I’ll sit here, and feign great woes and cares.

Do up my robe! Bind fast my wanton hair:

Which of the maids is in on my affairs?

Eurycleia:

Only the twelve, my lady, who assisted,

Know that the Suitors you have not resisted.

They smuggled lovers in and out all night;

They drew the drapes, and then they held the light.

They’re privy to your every lawless thrill

They must be silenced, or the beans they’ll spill!

Penelope:

Oh then, dear Nurse, it’s really up to you

To save me, and Odysseus’ honour too!

Because he sucked at your now-ancient bust,

You are the only one of us he’ll trust.

Point out those maids as feckless and disloyal,

Snatched by the Suitors as unlawful spoil,

Polluted, shameless, and not fit to be

The doting slaves of such a Lord as he!

Eurycleia:

We’ll stop their mouths by sending them to Hades

He’ll string them up as grubby wicked ladies!

Penelope:

And I in fame a model wife shall rest

All husbands will look on, and think him blessed!

But haste—the Suitors come to do their wooing,

And I, for my part, must begin boo-hooing!

The Chorus Line, in tap-dance shoes:

Blame it on the maids!

Those naughty little jades!

Hang them high and don’t ask why

Blame it on the maids!

Blame it on the slaves!

The toys of rogues and knaves!

Let them dangle, let them strai

Blame it on the slaves!

Blame it on the sluts!

Those poxy little scuts!

We’ve got the dirt on every ski

Blame it on the sluts!

They all curtsy.

I was wandering through the asphodel, musing on times past, when I saw Helen sauntering my way. She was followed by her customary horde of male spirits, all of them twittering with anticipation. She gave them not even a glance, though she was evidently conscious of their presence. She’s always had a pair of invisible antennae that twitch at the merest whiff of a man.

‘Hello there, little cousin duck,’ she said to me with her usual affable condescension. ‘I’m on my way to take my bath. Care to join me?’

‘We’re spirits now, Helen,’ I said with what I

hoped was a smile. ‘Spirits don’t have bodies. They don’t get dirty. They have no need of baths.’

‘Oh, but my reason for taking a bath was always spiritual,’ said Helen, opening her lovely eyes very wide. ‘I found it so soothing, in the midst of the turmoil. You wouldn’t have any idea of how exhausting it is, having such vast numbers of men quarrelling over you, year after year. Divine beauty is such a burden. At least you’ve been spared that!’

I ignored the sneer. ‘Are you going to take off your spirit robes?’ I asked.

‘We’re all aware of your legendary modesty, Penelope,’ she replied. ‘I’m sure if you ever were to bathe you’d keep your own robes on, as I suppose you did in life. Unfortunately’ here she smiled ‘modesty was not among the gifts given to me by laughter-loving Aphrodite. I do prefer to bathe without my robes, even in the spirit.’

‘That would explain the unusually large crowd of spectators you’ve attracted,’ I said, somewhat tersely.

‘But is it unusually large?’ she asked, with an innocent lift of her eyebrows. ‘There are always such throngs of these men. I never count them. I do feel that because so many of them died for me—well, because of me surely I owe them something in return.’

‘If only a peek at what they missed on earth,’ I said.

‘Desire does not die with the body,’ said Helen. ‘Only the ability to satisfy it. But a glimpse or two does perk them up, the poor lambs.’

‘It gives them a reason to live,’ I said.

‘You’re being witty,’ said Helen. ‘Better late than never, I suppose.’

‘My wittiness, or your bare-naked tits-and-ass bath treat for the dead?’ I said.

‘You’re such a cynic,’ said Helen. ‘Just because we’re not, you know, any more, there’s no need to be so negative. And so so vulgar! Some of us have a giving nature. Some of us like to contribute what we can to the less fortunate.’

‘So you’re washing their blood off your hands,’ I said. ‘Figuratively speaking, of course. Making up for all those mangled corpses. I hadn’t realised you were capable of guilt.’

This bothered her. She gave a tiny frown. ‘Tell me, little duck how many men did Odysseus butcher because of you?’

‘Quite a lot,’ I said. She knew the exact number:

she’d long since satisfied herself that the total was puny compared with the pyramids of corpses laid at her door.

‘It depends on what you call a lot,’ said Helen.

‘But that’s nice. I’m sure you felt more important because of it. Maybe you even felt prettier.’ She smiled with her mouth only. ‘Well, I’m off now, little duck. I’m sure I’ll see you around. Enjoy the asphodel.’ And she wafted away, followed by her excited entourage.