We now see Penelope, beautiful sister of Helen. And in what seems like an early example of the virgin/whore syndrome, Penelope has every virtue Helen doesn't. She's faithful, modest -- and the mother of a son. (Helen has only a daughter. To father only daughters was a sort of slow suicide for ancient Greek men. Sons might not carry on your name literally the way they do now, but they would sing your praises, raise your tomb, and you'd be remembered even in their resemblance to you. And Helen had no children at all with Paris. Had to be some divine judgment going on there.)
Penelope comes down from her room when the bard begins to sing of the Greeks' return from Troy. She begs him to sing another song, and Telemachus scolds her for her sentiment. Don't blame the messenger for the bad news, and all that. He reminds her harshly that Odysseus was not the only great warrior "whose journey home was blotted out at Troy."
He then tells her to go back to her quarters and see to her weaving. "As for giving orders,men will see to that, but I most of all: *I* hold the reins of power in this house."
This is Telemachus taking a first crack at coming into his own and showing the suitors what he's made of. This particular twenty-first century reader can't exactly burst into spontaneous applause at the fact that he does so by humiliating his mother; but it's ancient Greece, land of the macho, so I'd better harden myself to more of the same before this journey's over.
Penelope goes up and cries herself to sleep in her longing for Odysseus.
Meanwhile, the suitors make raunchy comments about how they'd like to cheer her up -- purty lady like that shouldn't be sleeping alone. Telemachus tells them that they should enjoy this party night, listen to the bard, have another drink; but tomorrow, he's going to tell them they have to leave. If they stay after he's given them this warning, well, he'll pray to Zeus to give them what they deserve.
This is fairly milky stuff to our ears, but it seems to impress the suitors, who bite their lips and are silenced for an uneasy moment. Then one, Antinous, speaks up sassily -- *he'll* pray to Zeus, too, namely that Telemachus will never be king of Ithaca. My footnotes point out that kingship in ancient Greece doesn't have the same automatic passing-down of rulership from father to son. So it seems to me that the guy isn't necessarily threatening Telemachus, the way it sounded when I first read the lines. He's simply saying that he hopes he himself can marry into the kingship of Ithaca before Telemachus can claim it.
Telemachus answers him mildly enough: kingship is a good deal, and he wouldn't say no to it if his father is truly dead.
Another suitor, Eurymachus, starts sassing him: yeah, yeah, hooray for you; but who is the stranger Telemachus spent so much of the evening chatting with? And did he bring some news of Odysseus, or what?
Telemachus answers, again calmly, and gives the name Athena gave, though he knows by now who she really was. The suitors go back to their partying; eventually the party ends, and everyone goes off to bed.
The chapter ends with a moving description of Telemachus' nurse, Eurycleia seeing him to sleep. Laertes, Odysseus' father
"had paid a price for the woman years ago, still in the bloom of youth. He traded twenty oxen, honored her on a par with his own loyal wife at home but fearing the queen's anger, never shared her bed. She was his grandson's escort now and bore a torch, for she was the one of all the maids who loved the prince the most -- she'd nursed him as a baby."
A sweet passage, followed by one that shows some of the bits of everyday life in ancient Greece that are so precious to us now, so many years later: Telemachus' "corded bed," his door drawn shut "with the silver hook;" and "all night long, wrapped in a sheep's warm fleece," Telemachus ponders all that Athena has told him about what he ought to do next.
