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  EUMAEUS

  Constantly. But they wouldn’t have much stomach in facing you.

  (As ULYSSES gives a short, bitter laugh)

  No, I’d just worry about their masters, if I were you. Fight them, and the rest will run.

  ULYSSES

  So that’s all I have to do? Fight eleven men.

  (He drops the irony, and becomes serious.)

  How many can we put up against them?

  EUMAEUS

  Well—there’s me; Telemachus, your son; and Philetius. Of course, he isn’t what he used to be—still feels the wounds he got in the war. The Trojans tore out his tongue, did you know that? So he is dumb. But he’s faithful. He has stayed here—

  ULYSSES

  Philetius... so he got home safely, did he? He’s a good man in any fight.—Who else?

  EUMAEUS

  That’s all.

  ULYSSES

  (Swings round to stare at EUMAEUS)

  Two old men, and a boy—that’s all who are left?

  EUMAEUS

  But you can handle a sword better than ten men put together!

  ULYSSES

  That old myth!... We’ll need more than our swords.

  (He sits down, thoroughly depressed.)

  We’ll have to put our brains to work, Eumaeus.

  EUMAEUS

  (Hesitating)

  I don’t suppose they gave you anything to eat or drink in the village?

  (ULYSSES is lost in his worry and dejection.)

  That’s what you need.

  (He hurries into the shack, comes out with a hunk of bread and a small flask of wine, ULYSSES takes them, with a nod, still lost in thought.)

  You know the best idea? Now that you’re home—

  (ULYSSES breaks the bread, and shares it with EUMAEUS.)

  —we could all escape. There’s a boat in the Bay just below your house. Remember it? Penelope had Philetius keep it in good order.

  (ULYSSES looks at him now, but still goes on chewing.)

  It takes five men to sail it, but with you as one of the crew, we could manage it. We could all leave—tonight—when it’s dark.

  ULYSSES

  And give up my land and my home to these invaders?

  (He drinks from the flask, then passes it over to eumaeus.)

  Like hell I will.

  EUMAEUS

  But we could come back—with more men, a small army—

  ULYSSES

  If no one came to help Penelope, in all these years, they wouldn’t come now. Why didn’t they come, the damned cowards?

  EUMAEUS

  They had their own lands to put in order, once they got back from the war. Hey—did you hear what happened to Agamemnon? Got his throat slit in his bath on the day he got home.

  (Drinks quickly)

  Yes, his wife, Clytemnestra, and her lover took over his palace at Mycenae—

  ULYSSES

  (Grimly)

  Are you trying to warn me that I’ll get my throat slit, too?

  EUMAEUS

  (Shocked)

  Penelope isn’t like that. She’s—

  ULYSSES

  Sure, sure. Just kept eleven men hanging around for three solid years. Who’s the one she is going to marry?

  EUMAEUS

  Now, look here—

  ULYSSES

  I think—I think I’d like to talk with my son. Go up to the house, Eumaeus. Find him. Bring him here.

  EUMAEUS

  Right away?

  ULYSSES

  Right away. But be careful. Tell no one else that I’m alive. Or that I have come back. No one.

  EUMAEUS

  Not even Penelope?

  ULYSSES

  (Softly)

  Least of all Penelope.

  (He draws his cloak more closely around him, sits brooding, biting the knuckles of his right fist, ignoring EUMAEUS, who leaves, shaking his head. ULYSSES is motionless. Suddenly he strikes his fist on the ground. He speaks in anger.)

  You gods in Heaven—do you never give a man any peace?

  ATHENA

  (Speaking sadly, from the darkness)

  Ulysses—have you forgotten me?

  ULYSSES

  (His anger changing to anguish)

  Athena! In the name of Reason!

  ATHENA

  (Her voice brightening as the light strengthens to show her more clearly)

  That’s better! It was I who brought you safely home, don’t forget.

  ULYSSES

  Why should this be my home-coming? Why, why?

  ATHENA

  (Sighing, as she speaks to the audience)

  It’s always the way. When things go wrong, all you human beings start asking, “Why, why, why?” As if the gods were to blame for your troubles.

  (She walks slowly, gracefully, over to ULYSSES.)

  Look into yourself, Ulysses. Look deeply. Everything changes, nothing stays as it was. That’s why the human comedy goes on, and on...

  ULYSSES

  (Angry again)

  It’s a joke on me. A bitter, sour-smelling joke.

  (He rises.)

  I’ve had enough of it. Old Eumaeus was right—there’s no sense in staying. I have my pride.

  ATHENA

  Your vanity, you mean. Oh, it’s badly wounded, I admit. But perhaps it needed a little deflating? What is a cruel joke but just another challenge? And you will walk away from it? And call it meaningless?—Then the joke is bitter: you’ll turn it into tragedy. Ulysses—listen to my voice. I’m putting reason into your head. Use it!

  ULYSSES

  (Takes two steps, hesitates, halts)

  And yet, I’ll be damned if I’ll let other men dictate the shape of my life.

  (Instead of leaving, he paces around.)

  So, they thought they could challenge me, did they? We’ll see about that... We’ll see...

  (He laughs, briefly, grimly.)

  ATHENA

  (To the audience)

  That wasn’t much of a laugh, but he will improve. Yes, our patient is coming out of shock. Emotions under control, heart strong, brain working. Now we’ll prescribe a little rest, some concentrated thought, and purge the self-pity right out of him. Really—

  (She begins to leave, passing ULYSSES with a light touch of farewell on his shoulder, which he can’t notice, of course.)

  if anyone had any complaints in this world, it should be me. I haven’t had one free hour to myself, since that frontal lobe was invented.

  (Calls gently back to ULYSSES, who has been staring thoughtfully into the middle distance ever since her touch on the shoulder)

  The gods gave you a brain. Use it. Stupidity never did produce a happy ending. Think well, my friend. Don’t disappoint me, now. I hate tragedy—it’s such a waste!

  (She laughs and goes out.)

  ULYSSES

  (Drops back onto the ground at the door of the shack. He resumes the position he had adopted when EUMAEUS left him, but now his rage has gone. He speaks quietly.)

  Penelope, Penelope... And I was so sure of you.

  (He shakes his head sadly, then falls into deep thought. His face is hard and cold. The curtain closes slowly.)

  SCENE 2

  We are in PENELOPE’s private sitting room, a kind of anteroom to her bedroom, whose massive bronze door lies in the centre of the back wall. Upstage to the left is the window; downstage to the right is the door to the sitting room. On either side of the bronze door stand three low-backed chairs, covered with embroidery in bright wools. Opposite the window, placed dramatically against the right upstage corner of the room, is a large and impressive leather chair. Beside it rest an equally large and impressive shield and spear. The only other furnishings in this room consist of an embroidery frame, a stool, and a small side table (with wools and cutting knife)—all grouped on the left, downstage, as if PENELOPE liked to face the leather chair as she worked.

  It is early morning. CLIA, a white-haired elderly woman, dressed in
a dark wool robe, is tidying the room. She is picking up skeins of gaily coloured wool from the floor, laying them on the little side table. She pauses for a moment to look at the embroidery, and shakes her head with a sigh. AMARYLLIS enters, a pretty young girl with a saucy air. She is dressed in a yellow robe, and she is carrying a small tray with fruit, wheat cakes, and honey, and a flask of wine.

  AMARYLLIS

  (As she enters)

  Well, here’s breakfast... Is she up yet?

  (She nods toward the bronze door, and starts in that direction.)

  CLIA

  (Dropping everything to intercept AMARYLLIS)

  Give me the tray.

  AMARYLLIS

  Oh, let me take it in. Just once!

  CLIA

  No one enters that room except me.

  AMARYLLIS

  (Slyly)

  Afraid I’ll tell the men downstairs what her bedroom looks like?

  CLIA

  They’d give a lot to know.

  (She carries the tray toward the bedroom door, and AMARYLLIS moves quietly over to the embroidery frame.)

  And another thing—When you are talking of the mistress, don’t call her “she.” Call her Penelope. If you can’t keep your own self-respect with those men downstairs, then at least give respect to women who’ve earned it.

  AMARYLLIS

  (Examining the embroidery curiously)

  It isn’t my fault that the house is filled with men. I didn’t bring them here.

  CLIA

  You certainly don’t object to them living here!

  (She looks round as she speaks, and sees AMARYLLIS touching the embroidery stretched on the frame. She puts down the tray on a chair beside the bronze door, and rushes at the girl.)

  What are you doing now? Out you go! Get on with your work!

  AMARYLLIS

  All right, all right... Stop pushing! I’m going!

  (She moves toward the entrance door.)

  You know why you are so bad-tempered in the morning? You never get kissed at night. You’re too old to be kissed, that’s your trouble.

  (PENELOPE has entered, closing the bedroom door quietly behind her. She stands there, watching the two maids. She is an extremely beautiful woman in her early thirties. Her dress is a simple grey wool robe.)

  AMARYLLIS

  (Frightened now, and very subdued)

  Good morning, Penelope.

  PENELOPE

  Good morning, Amaryllis.

  (She doesn’t move from the bronze door. AMARYLLIS goes out quickly. Then PENELOPE comes forward, slowly. Her voice is calm, almost lifeless.)

  Good morning, Clia.

  CLIA

  Morning.

  (She watches PENELOPE worriedly as she wanders around the room.)

  That Amaryllis—she’s getting too brash.

  PENELOPE

  So I heard.

  (She is now standing at the embroidery frame, looking at it gloomily.)

  CLIA

  You heard everything?

  PENELOPE

  It wasn’t difficult.

  (She gives a short, bitter laugh.)

  So we are too old, are we? That’s our trouble?

  CLIA

  Now, now... Here’s your breakfast. Where will you have it? At the window?

  (She lays the tray, as she speaks, on the side table, and pulls it nearer to the window.)

  Look, it’s a fine bright morning. Good sailing weather, Penelope.

  PENELOPE

  Except, there isn’t any ship.

  CLIA

  Why, there are a lot of ships down in the harbour this morning. I saw three fishing boats headed straight for this island, even before the sun came rising out of the sea.

  PENELOPE

  (Turning her back on the window)

  But not the ship bringing my husband.

  CLIA

  Ulysses could have been on one of those boats!

  PENELOPE

  (Suddenly coming to life as she faces CLIA)

  You’ve told me that too often. This is the last morning you are to talk of ships. The last morning, d’you hear?

  CLIA

  Penelope! You aren’t giving up hope?

  PENELOPE

  (Dejected)

  I—I don’t know...

  (She sits down on the stool in front of the embroidery frame. Her body droops.)

  CLIA

  But you can’t give up hope!

  PENELOPE

  It’s hope that has given me up.

  CLIA

  But hope is life...

  PENELOPE

  And what kind of life do I have?

  CLIA

  You’re young—

  PENELOPE

  Too old to be kissed, according to Amaryllis.

  CLIA

  You’re still beautiful—

  PENELOPE

  (Wryly)

  Still? Thank you...

  CLIA

  My, you’ve had a bad night, haven’t you? Come on. Eat something and you’ll feel much better. Look, here’s clover honey—you always liked that—and wheat cakes.

  (She fusses with the tray.)

  I can remember the first morning I ever served you breakfast in this room... Your hair was as gold as the sun streaming in that window.

  PENELOPE

  (Sitting in front of the breakfast tray, but still not touching it)

  At least, the sun hasn’t changed.

  CLIA

  (Quickly)

  Just fifteen you were, then. Slender as a willow branch. Eyes as blue as a bed of iris.

  PENELOPE

  (Almost smiling)

  That was the morning I awoke saying, “Why, I’m a grown-up woman! I’m old, at last!”

  (She shakes her head in amusement.)

  CLIA

  That was the morning you got honey all over your fingers, and you licked them when you thought Ulysses wasn’t looking. But he was noticing everything you did—sitting over in that chair, he was—

  (She points to the large chair, upstage right.)

  and he let out a roar of laughter. Remember how he used to laugh?

  PENELOPE

  Don’t... Don’t!

  CLIA

  And you looked up at him, and the colour spread over your cheeks, and you began to laugh, too. Then I knew you were the right wife for Ulysses.

  PENELOPE

  (Rising abruptly)

  Stop it, Clia, stop it!

  (She begins to pace around the room.)

  So you knew I was the right wife for Ulysses! How can I be any kind of wife if I have no husband?

  CLIA

  Now, now—

  PENELOPE

  Seventeen years of waiting... Seventeen years since he went off to fight.

  CLIA

  I know, I know... It was a long war.

  PENELOPE

  Ten years long. Where’s your arithmetic, Clia? Ten from seventeen leaves a lot of waiting.

  (Her anger changes to fear.)

  Doesn’t Ulysses ever want to see our island again? Or his son? Or me?

  (She begins to weep.)

  CLIA

  (Comforting PENELOPE)

  Ulysses will come home. Put that fear out of your mind. He will come back—just wait and see.

  PENELOPE

  I’ve waited and waited, and what have I seen? Ship after ship sailing into harbour, and still no Ulysses. He doesn’t want to come back, Clia.

  CLIA

  Now, you aren’t being fair. Troy is a far journey from Ithaca.

  PENELOPE

  Not seven years far!

  CLIA

  But we live on an island. We’ve been stormbound for the worst seven winters, one right after another, that I’ve ever seen.

  PENELOPE

  Seven winters had seven summers.

  CLIA

  (Her voice sharpening)

  Will you listen to me?

  PENELOPE

  I’ve always lis
tened to you. That’s been part of my trouble.

  CLIA

  Your trouble is that you’ve been thinking too much about yourself and too little about Ulysses.

  PENELOPE

  (Too hurt to be angry)

  Oh, Clia!

  CLIA

  (More gently)

  Well, in this last week you certainly have. I’ve been watching you—sitting here, boiling up like a volcano. Ulysses has had his share of problems, don’t forget.

  PENELOPE

  (Miserable, in a low voice)

  What colour of hair did they have?

  CLIA

  (Angry again)

  Shipping was scarce after the war. It still is. All the veterans had trouble finding transportation.

  PENELOPE

  But they came home, didn’t they? They’re home now.

  CLIA

  (Quietly)

  Not all of them.

  PENELOPE

  (Chastened)

  Some will never come back... But at least, their women know that. They know the worst. I don’t. I know nothing. You can’t go on living with nothing, Clia.

  CLIA

  (Her anger increasing with her worry)

  All right, I’ll give you something to live with! I’ve been trying to keep the news from you, but—

  (She breaks off, upset. As her control weakens, PENELOPE becomes strong, calm, alert.)

  PENELOPE

  What is it, Clia? More trouble with our unwanted guests?

  CLIA

  Trouble? Disaster! Those men downstairs—they’ve taken over your house, they’ve bullied and threatened and thieved—

  PENELOPE

  Now, Clia, stop upsetting yourself. It won’t help us deal with those men, I assure you. Look, I’ll make a bargain with you—