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Justin Chen “Lowliness Majestic”: The Examples of Eurycleia and Penelope in Homer’s The Odyssey “So spake our sire, and by his countenance seemed —John Milton, Paradise Lost In Paradise Lost, Milton’s retelling of the fall of mankind, it is the central female character, Eve, who takes on the role of the epic hero and first boldly tastes the forbidden fruit of the Tree of Knowledge. While an unhealthy dose of satanic deceit and a misguided sense of ambition certainly play a substantial role in the formulation of this catastrophic decision, an interesting and arguably more important motive can be traced to Eve’s attempt to draw closer to a God from whom she feels constantly separated by the mediating influence of Adam. While Milton’s Eve represents a much more complex and nuanced picture than her sisters in the Homeric epic tradition, this same question—whether female characters can perform functions beyond a certain sphere and exist as assertive agents capable of exerting an influence beyond their relationships with the male figures—appears to exist in both Paradise Lost and The Odyssey. The central female characters of Penelope and Eurycleia demonstrate that while women can and often do perform important functions in the classical world, they ultimately cannot transcend their gender’s assumed role as supporting figures in the dominant male hierarchy. The character of Odysseus’ nurse, Eurycleia, presents an excellent example of the restrictive nature of Homer’s male-centered epic structure. An elderly servant of relatively important status within Odysseus’ home, Eurycleia more nearly resembles a family member than a servant—and indeed, we learn as early as Book I that she was actually Odysseus’ wet nurse at one point and had been honored by Laertes “on a par with his own loyal wife at home” (I.492; 91). (ii) As such, it is not inconceivable that she, perhaps even more than Eumaeus the swineherd or Philoetius the cowherd—both of whom are loyal to their master but not related to him by blood—should play a central role in the plot to restore Odysseus to his rightful throne. Yet throughout the final books of The Odyssey, Eurycleia’s role is characterized not by action, but by silence. When the nurse discovers the telltale scar on Odysseus’ leg, he sternly tells her to breathe “not a word to anyone in the house. / Or else, I warn you—and I mean business too— / if a god beats down these brazen suitors at my hands, / I will not spare you—my old nurse that you are— / when I kill the other women in my house” (XIX.550-4; 406). While this reprimand seems harsh, it is just the beginning in a long string of similar incidents. In an attempt to be helpful, Eurycleia says, “If a god beats down these brazen suitors at your hands, / I’ll report in full on the women in your house: / who are disloyal to you, who are guiltless” (XIX.560-2; 406). Eurycleia’s repetition of the phrase “if a god beats down these brazen suitors” could be seen as either an attempt to ingratiate herself to Odysseus or else as a simple rhetorical aid for the orator—but either way, it is clear that Eurycleia only wants to aid Odysseus in his struggle. Yet her master responds by saying, “Why bother to count them off? A waste of breath. / I’ll observe them, judge each one myself. / Just be quiet. Keep your tales to yourself. / Leave the rest to the gods” (XIX.564-7; 406). Odysseus’ jarring words again appear to be calculated to silence the old nurse, even when she only asks to offer relevant information about the servants, an area in which she is clearly an expert. The icy nature of Odysseus’ words in these past examples is made all the more perplexing by the fact that when it comes to his household servants, he clearly does not “judge each one” by himself—and indeed, how could he when he has been alienated for so long from the daily interactions of his household? Thus, after Telemachus declares the bard Phemius and the herald Medon innocent of any wrongdoing, Odysseus cries out, “Courage! / The prince has pulled you through, he’s saved you now” (XXII.343-4; 450)—clearly demonstrating a need for the very internal intelligence that he rejected from Eurycleia. As discussed above, Odysseus’ contradictory actions cannot necessarily be explained by his closer kinship to Telemachus, since Eurycleia is also essentially a member of the family. The confusion surrounding Odysseus’ contradictory behavior intensifies after the slaughter of the suitors in the hall. He commands to Eurycleia, “Quick, report in full on the women in my halls— / who are disloyal to me, who are guiltless?” (XXII.443-4; 452). Apparently forgotten was his previous edict, “Why bother to count them off? A waste of breath.” One explanation for this reversal might be that having relied once upon Telemachus to supply information that he had hoped to glean on his own, Odysseus realizes the incompleteness of his own knowledge and finally deigns to allow Eurycleia to help him as she had previously suggested. Yet Odysseus’ initial impulse to silence the nurse remains striking. On the day of the slaughter itself, Eurycleia is again silenced—this time by the swineherd Eumaeus, who orders, “Not one of you show your face— / sit tight, keep to your weaving, not a sound”—a command that we are told “silenced the old nurse” (XXI.432; 436). Ironically, in this particular instance, the nurse had not even been talking. Later, when Odysseus needs to ask Eurycleia about the loyalty of the female servants, Telemachus calls to the nurse, “Up with you, good old woman! / You who watch over all the household hands— / quick, my father wants you, needs to have a word!” (XXII.420-2; 451)—“crisp command” which “left the old nurse hushed” (XXII.423; 451). Again, it is unclear why the nurse needs to be “hushed,” or why the text continues to emphasize her silence. In yet another example, when Eurycleia wishes to rejoice over Odysseus’ bloody victory over the suitors, “the soldier held her back and checked her zeal / with warnings winging home: ‘Rejoice in your heart, / old woman—peace! No cries of triumph now. / It’s unholy to glory over the bodies of the dead” (XXII.434-7; 452). And Eurycleia is even silenced by another female figure, Penelope, when she brings news of Odysseus’ triumph. “‘Hush, dear woman,’ guarded Penelope cautioned [Eurycleia] at once. ‘Don’t laugh, don’t cry in triumph—not yet” (XXIII.63-5; 457). All these examples serve to further support the notion that the nurse’s role is primarily one of silence, not action. Even in areas in which Eurycleia is ostensibly the expert, such as the conduct of the various household servants, she is nonetheless told to be quiet. While this continual silencing in part conveys a sense of expectancy, of needing to wait for the exact right moment, its almost comically inflexible repetition also creates a clear sense that the nurse is simply expected to be quiet in every instance. She is not even permitted to display that outpouring of emotion to which a nurse who has been reunited with her long-lost charge certainly ought to be entitled. In the rigidly unchanging roles of The Odyssey—a narrative in which many characters are identified with an oft-repeated and just as rigidly unchanging epithet—there simply is not room for Eurycleia to transcend her limited function as a servant. The other major female character within the epic, Penelope, arguably does possess some sense of agency as well as an ability to shape the course of action. Indeed, as one of the slaughtered suitors, Amphimedon, laments to Agamemnon in the underworld, “This was her latest masterpiece of guile: / she set up a great loom in the royal halls / and she began to weave, and the weaving finespun, / the yarns endless, and she would lead us on” (XXIV.139-142; 472). This quotation is significant because Amphimedon acknowledges Penelope’s role in coming up with the plot—“her latest masterpiece of guile”—and because of the apparent pun on the word “yarn,” which could refer to either the thread she used to weave the so-called shroud, or the tales she was spinning to keep the ill-mannered suitors at bay. The emphasis on Penelope’s intellectual cunning and witty solution to a difficult dilemma serves to strengthen the parallels between her character and that of the “wily” Odysseus. Indeed, there are numerous instances in which Penelope and Odysseus are compared or presented in a similar light. For instance, the narrator describes the scene in which Penelope opens the door to the room in which Odysseus’ bow is kept as follows: “At once she loosed the thong from around its hook, / inserted the key and aiming straight and true, / shot back the bolts—and the rasping doors groaned / as loud as a bull will bellow, champing grass at pasture” (XXI.54-7; 426). This description bears a striking resemblance to the scene later in the same book, in which, according to the narrator, “Setting shaft on the handgrip, drawing the notch / and bowstring back, back…right from his stool, / just as he sat but aiming straight and true, [Odysseus] let fly— / and never missing an ax from the first ax-handle / clean on through to the last and out / the shaft with its weighted brazen head shot free!” (XX1.466-71; 438). The use of the phrase “straight and true” in both excerpted passages, as well as the translator’s choice of the word “shot” in describing the effect of Penelope’s action on the bolts of the door, both seem to indicate that these are indeed parallel scenes that are meant to be viewed against one another, with Odysseus’ brave wife attaining an almost warrior-like aspect. Thus, it appears that Penelope approximates her husband in terms of both intellect and action, and therefore defies the traditional female role in the epic. Yet despite this seeming lapse in the traditional Homeric gender roles, many of Penelope’s circumstances and actions call into question how much, if any, agency she truly possesses. First of all, while Penelope’s intense loyalty to her husband appears incredible and extraordinarily praiseworthy—even garnering accolades from Agamemnon’s justly-cynical shade—it is unclear that she ever has much choice in the matter. Indeed, when Odysseus attempts to obscure from the public the results of the massacre that has just gone on in his home, and he commands his servants to put on a party as if the queen had finally decided to wed one of the suitors, the passersby remark of Penelope, “That callous woman, / too faithless to keep her lord and master’s house / to the bitter end—Till he came sailing home” (XXIII.167-9; 460). Thus, it seems that Penelope must remain perfectly faithful to her marriage or risk wholesale revilement at the hands of the populace. Odysseus, on the other hand, appears to be permitted to have as many extramarital dalliances as he likes, as long as his ultimate goal remains to return home to his wife. While it could be argued that relationships with Circe and Calypso notwithstanding, Odysseus never officially weds another, and therefore remains true to his marriage, a sexual double standard is nonetheless still implied. After all, it is implausible to imagine that Penelope could decide to have intimate extramarital relations with the suitors and yet still retain the same sense of untouched chastity. Telemachus himself announces bitterly within earshot of Penelope during the trial of the bow, “My own dear mother, sensible as she is, / says she’ll marry again, forsake our house” (XXI.118-9; 427). His words resound of a strong sense of accusation. While it may appear that Penelope is capable of free choice despite her female status, it is increasingly clear that she is actually confined by society’s and her family’s expectations of her behavior. But even beyond this external pressure, there is a certain sense that once again in the world of Homer’s narrative, there is little room for characters to even desire to transcend their narrow limits. Not only does Penelope never actively assert her own agency, it does not appear that she even has any desire to do so in the first place. When Telemachus chides her, “So, mother, / go back to your quarters. Tend to your own tasks, / the distaff and the loom, and keep the women / working hard as well. As for the bow now, / men will see to that , but I most of all: / I hold the reins of power in this house” (XXI.389-94; 435), Penelope does not secretly harbor resentment at being told essentially to remove herself from the process of selecting her future husband. Instead, “astonished, / she withdrew to her own room. She took to heart / the clear good sense in what her son had said” (XXI.394-6; 435). It seems clear from this passage that despite her resemblance to Odysseus, Penelope does not have anywhere near the same capacity for self-determined action. In tracing the characters of Eurycleia and Penelope in The Odyssey, then, it becomes evident that neither character can perform functions outside her assigned sphere. Eurycleia’s role as a nurse relegates her to passive, silent observation throughout most of the homecoming narrative. Meanwhile, Penelope’s seeming similarities to Odysseus and her epic heroism in formulating the diversion of the shroud are revealed to be poetic devices only, perhaps intended to establish a greater sense that she is the correct match for her husband—for when it comes to actual assertion of her own will during the trial of the suitors, she completely accepts Telemachus’ command to return to “her own tasks, / the distaff and the loom.” Perhaps it is simply one feature of an epic to inflexibly typecast its characters and not allow room for variation. In the post-lapsarian world near the end of Paradise Lost, after Eve has acted the disastrous part of the epic hero, Michael attempts to comfort her by saying, “Thy going is not lonely, with thee goes / Thy husband, him to follow thou art bound; / Where abides, think there thy native soil” (PL XI.290-2; 613). Perhaps Penelope and Eurycleia ought also be instructed to take comfort, however paltry, in their roles as supporting figures for their male counterparts within their own version of the unfairly rigid epic world.
i) Milton, John. Paradise Lost: Second Edition (ed. Alastair Fowler). New York: Addison Wesley Longman, Inc. 1998. Citations are in the form (Book.Lines; Page) ii) The Odyssey by Homer. Trans. Robert Fagles. New York: Penguin Books. 1996. Citations are in the form (Book.Lines; Page) |