Though there is no direct collusion, Odysseus and Penelope do come to an understanding in Book 19. He is mistaken on the latter point, but the gist of his guess is not far from the truth. Amphimedon also believes that Penelope and Odysseus colluded and that it was Odysseus’ cunning idea to set up the archery contest. The salient fact remains that this telling brings the completion of the web and the arrival of Odysseus into contact, so that in retrospect the two events seem linked. This discrepancy has not gone without scholarly comment, and this is no place to restate the possible explanations, though it seems reasonable for Amphimedon, looking as he is at the totality of the suitors’ courtship, to omit details of timing that are still important for Antinoos. It was then that some evil spirit brought Odysseusįrom somewhere to the edge of his estate, where the swineherd lived. Then she displayed her fabric, having woven a great piece of weavingĪnd washed it, and it was like the sun and moon. Conversely, when both his son and his grandson return safe and sound, the old man revives and, with Athena’s help, regains some of his former strength ( Odyssey 24.265–282). If Telemachus dies, then the devastation is complete. Odysseus’ disappearance is a heavy blow to the family, but not its utter ruin. In this he is like Penelope, who says in Book 4 that she grieves for Telemachus even more than she does for Odysseus. When Telemachus leaves for Pylos, he stops eating and drinking and caring for his orchards, but only weeps, a picture of ultimate wretchedness ( Odyssey 16.137–145). When Odysseus fails to return, he retreats to the countryside and grieves for his son, but still eats, drinks, and supervises his servants, leading a modest but sustainable life, as long as Telemachus is not in danger. The old man’s condition seems to be directly dependent on his male offspring, so that he serves as a barometer of sorts for the state of the genos. This is in sharp contrast to the Laertes we see for much of the Odyssey. Now, if Laertes is buried in the shroud Penelope wove for him, it will be as a happy father and grandfather, whose male descendants are left behind to carry on his line. When the weaving tale is told for the last time by Amphimedon in Book 24, the suitors are dead and lie unburied in the courtyard of Odysseus’ house (24.186–187). In any case Telemachus is a separate subject, and in the meanwhile it is clear that Penelope is creating a surpassing kleos for herself, and that Antinoos chafes at the thought that she is doing so at the suitors’, above all his own, expense. Odysseus’ return, with much wealth, will more than make up for the temporary decrease of Telemachus’ patrimony, so that in the end Penelope’s kleos will be to Telemachus’ advantage. There is some truth to his words, but only for the moment. It has been also seen as a peculiarly feminine mode of communication: for Penelope, who does not have access to the male world of public speaking, weaving itself becomes a silent expense. Weaving is a metaphor for the making of poetry, and Penelope’s work has been seen as emblematic of song in general and Odyssean poetics in particular. This tale, and Penelope’s weaving in general, has probably received more scholarly attention than anything else about Penelope, and it has justly been discussed in connection with speech and song.
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