Home is the Hunter

  HOMER

  Embroidery? What’s this about embroidery?

  (He goes quickly over to the frame.)

  CLIA

  That’s what it is, whatever it looks like. It’s for the seventh and last chair. See—

  (Points to the chairs along the wall)

  six of them finished; and that makes seven.

  (She points to the frame.)

  HOMER

  (Sharply)

  What’s this about seven chairs?

  CLIA

  It’s the promise that Penelope gave. On the altar of Athena herself. So that she could put off choosing a husband.

  HOMER

  Why, I always understood she promised to weave a shroud for her father-in-law.

  CLIA

  Oh, at the last moment she changed her mind.

  HOMER

  But why wasn’t I told about this change? I never heard about any embroidery.

  CLIA

  Embroidery or weaving, it’s all the same.

  HOMER

  On the contrary!... I have already composed a very fine poem about Penelope weaving.

  CLIA

  So you are telling about Ulysses and Penelope? Isn’t that nice! Penelope!

  (She knocks on the bedroom door, opens it a little.)

  Penelope! You’ve a visitor; he’s travelled a long way to see you!

  PENELOPE

  (Urgently)

  Clia, don’t tease me. Who is it?

  CLIA

  (To HOMER)

  Poor dear! She’s always thinking it might be Ulysses.

  (To PENELOPE)

  It’s your friend the poet—the man who is making up the story about Ulysses.

  (She leaves the bedroom door.)

  HOMER

  Clia, I don’t make up stories... I describe the truth. That is why I am here in Ithaca now. If I didn’t want to see the real facts for myself, I could stay in Smyrna, where I like the climate. And another thing—why do you call your master Ulysses? Give him his real name—Odysseus. Really, Clia... Ulysses! A complete bastardisation. It won’t even scan properly.

  CLIA

  Penelope always calls him Ulysses. She says Odysseus is too big a mouthful. For instance,

  (She points to ULYSSES’ chair.)

  you can say “Ulysses’ chair” without too much of a splutter. But who’s going to take a deep-enough breath to say “Odysseus’s chair”?

  HOMER

  (Stiffly)

  I still say Odysseus.

  CLIA

  (Placatingly)

  Turned out a nice day, hasn’t it? How far have you been travelling, this time?

  HOMER

  From Thessaly.

  CLIA

  Over all those mountains? My, that’s quite a journey—

  (She strikes her forehead.)

  Your cloak—your boots—I was so excited I forgot to welcome you properly. I’ll just rush downstairs and get a basin of water. I’m sorry, I really am...

  HOMER

  (Smiling again)

  What I need most is a drink. I’ve walked from the village, and I’ve collected as much dust in my throat as on my boots.

  CLIA

  Shan’t be a moment—

  (As PENELOPE opens the bedroom door and enters the sitting room, CLIA exclaims and rushes out.)

  PENELOPE

  (Coming forward to HOMER with hands outstretched. She has changed her dress—she is now wearing a blue silk gown, and her hair is charmingly arranged.)

  Homer! How wonderful to see you!... And how well you look.

  (She takes his cloak and places it on one of the chairs.)

  HOMER

  You are looking remarkably well, yourself.

  (He looks at her critically, though.)

  PENELOPE

  (Looking down at her dress)

  You don’t like it? I thought it was—quite—pretty.

  HOMER

  It’s most charming, but isn’t it a little—lighthearted? Not quite what I had imagined you wearing.

  PENELOPE

  Really?

  (She is amused. HOMER has been looking for a place to lay his harp. He almost puts it on ULYSSES’ chair, but then refrains.)

  Yes, put it there.

  HOMER

  But it’s your husband’s chair, and only Odysseus sits there.

  PENELOPE

  Put it on the chair. Ulysses will be honoured.

  HOMER

  My dear, I wish you’d call him Odysseus.

  PENELOPE

  (Laughing)

  But my tongue trips over it.

  (She pulls two chairs forward, and invites him to sit down.)

  You always amaze me. You’ve never been in this room before, yet you know all about Ulysses’ chair.

  HOMER

  That’s easily explained. People talk, you know. And poets listen.

  PENELOPE

  And when Homer sings, the people grow silent.

  HOMER

  (Now in very good humour)

  If there’s one thing nicer than being treated to a compliment, it’s having a pretty woman pay it.

  PENELOPE

  That wasn’t a compliment; it was the truth. No poet is so—

  (She breaks off as the door opens. CLIA comes in with a bronze basin of water and a folded towel over her arm. AMARYLLIS follows her, carrying a large silver goblet of wine.)

  What’s this?

  (She stares down at HOMER’s boots and springs to her feet.) Heavens! What have we done—or, rather, what haven’t we done? Clia, you know the rule of this house: no stranger, however poor, arrives at our door without being welcomed. And what is our welcome?

  CLIA

  To speak kindly and invite him to enter; to bathe his hands and feet; to offer him bread and wine and a warm corner by the hearth.

  HOMER

  Now, now, Penelope... I always think of you as the gentlest woman I’ve ever met. Besides, you didn’t notice my boots either, did you?

  PENELOPE

  No...

  (She begins to laugh, too.)

  All this excitement today is too much for me, I’m afraid.

  (She draws aside CLIA, who has placed the basin before HOMER and now kneels at his feet.)

  Let me.

  (She kneels in front of HOMER and begins to draw off his boots. CLIA, now on her feet, places the towel over PENELOPE’s shoulder, and then beckons AMARYLLIS forward. HOMER takes the goblet quickly, has a long drink, and then raises it with a sigh of pleasure.)

  HOMER

  Oh, come bring to me a pint of wine, and pour it in a silver tassie!

  PENELOPE

  Tassie? What on earth is that?

  HOMER

  A word I’ve just invented. Sounds amusing in a foreign kind of way, doesn’t it? Not as heavy as “goblet,” not as solemn as “beaker.” Of course, you could get rid of that cold solemnity and add a touch of the sun by saying—now, let me see... Yes... “Come bring to me a pint of wine, a beaker full of the warm south.” Full of the warm south... Yes, that stirs memories as well as one’s palate.

  (He nods, drinks, and sighs with pleasure as he slips his feet into the basin of water.)

  AMARYLLIS

  South is south, and north is north. You can’t pour either of them into a beaker!

  (She smiles saucily and tosses her head.)

  HOMER

  (Noticing her with amusement)

  Ah, my public! How sensitive, how percipient, how appreciative! No wonder poets can starve to death.

  CLIA

  (Warningly)

  Amaryllis! This isn’t Melas you’re talking to. It’s Homer, the poet.

  AMARYLLIS

  (Unabashed)

  He doesn’t look as if he’ll starve to death.

  PENELOPE

  Leave the room.

  HOMER

  (Laughing)

  I’m going to take that as a compliment, Amaryllis.

  AMARYLLIS


  (All smiles, as she strikes a pretty pose for HOMER’s benefit)

  If it’s a compliment you want, I can do better than that.

  PENELOPE

  (Flaring up)

  If you don’t leave this room at once, you’ll leave this house.

  (AMARYLLIS looks at her angrily, and then goes out.)

  HOMER

  Now, I’m afraid that was my fault somehow. My dear Penelope, you’re all on edge. This isn’t like you.

  PENELOPE

  Isn’t it?

  (She bathes his feet for a moment, and then smiles.)

  How much do you really know me, I wonder.

  HOMER

  You are one of the chief characters in my new poem. Of course I know you. Well. How else could I make you come alive?

  (PENELOPE stares at him, and sits back on her heels, forgetting her duty.)

  That was a pretty girl, all the same. Amaryllis, did you say? A sweet name for a sweet face.

  CLIA

  And an empty head.

  HOMER

  Amaryllis... Amaryllis. There’s music in the name. To play with Amaryllis—to play with Amaryllis in the shade. No... to sport with Amaryllis in the shade or with the tangles of Niobe’s hair...

  (He shakes his head.)

  That isn’t quite right. Niobe—she’s too tragic. I’ll have to think of someone else.

  PENELOPE

  (Smiling, fascinated by HOMER’s words, still sitting back on her heels)

  To sport with Amaryllis... that sounds very appropriate to me. I’d keep that phrase, at least. Are you thinking of using it in the new poem? And the pint of wine, complete with tassie?—Oh, Clia! We’re listening to poetry being made!

  HOMER

  I’ll use the phrases—if I can remember them. That’s the trouble, you know: there are too many phrases running through my head. It’s difficult to get them all into my poems.

  PENELOPE

  Then for every line of poetry you sing, there may be three that we shall never hear?

  HOMER

  (Cheerfully)

  Sad, isn’t it? That’s why poets all go slightly crazy. Occupational disease. Now, what about this object?

  (He lifts a foot to be dried, and brings PENELOPE back to her duty again.)

  Poor old feet! They’ve carried me many a mile. Why don’t you rebel, feet? There isn’t another part of my body that would take such a pounding and not complain...

  (He speaks vaguely, as if listening and inventing.)

  Oh—the moon shines bright on Mrs. Porter, and on her daughter, they wash their feet in soda water.

  (He laughs.)

  Don’t think too much of that, do you, Penelope?

  PENELOPE

  Who’s Mrs. Porter, and what’s soda water? Or doesn’t it matter when you’re thinking up poetry?

  (She laughs, too, as she finishes her task, and turns to CLIA for a pair of sandals.)

  But, Homer, quite seriously, it is such a waste not to use all the lines you invent—

  (HOMER is setting “Mrs. Porter” to a catchy little tune.)

  —even the silly ones.

  HOMER

  Waste? Why, I only plucked these words out of the air. If I don’t use them, I send them back where they came from; and they’ll hover around until another poet reaches up and catches them. There will always be plenty of poets. What I’ve lost, they’ll find. So there’s no waste.

  (He bends to help PENELOPE fasten on the sandals. He touches PENELOPE’s head.)

  Thank you. That was the sweetest welcome ever given me.

  (clia has removed the basin and towel and dusty boots, and bustles from the room. He helps penelope to rise.)

  PENELOPE

  Why don’t you tell your phrases to your pupils? They could always use them.

  HOMER

  I teach my pupils how to sing, but I’ll never teach them what to sing. There’s such a thing as integrity, you know, even in the literary world. Besides, some of my pupils are getting too big for their tunics. Why, some day, they will be claiming that they helped to compose The Iliad.

  PENELOPE

  I loved The Iliad. I can hardly wait until your next poem comes out.

  HOMER

  (Sharply)

  And when did you hear The Iliad?

  PENELOPE

  Oh, we’ve had several wandering minstrels during the last few years. They stay overnight, and sing to us, and it’s always something from The Iliad. They say it’s top of the request list, wherever they go.

  HOMER

  Were they from my School in Smyrna?

  PENELOPE

  Some were pupils of your pupils, I think.

  HOMER

  (Rising abruptly)

  You see!—They’ll be changing my lines, adding verses of their own! A hundred years from now, and I won’t recognise some of my own poetry.

  PENELOPE

  A hundred years from now?

  HOMER

  What do you think I’m writing for? Only for the people who live today? Why, there’s no reason for a good story to die. It can be passed down from mouth to mouth, from heart to heart, for at least a hundred years. Perhaps ten hundred.

  PENELOPE

  A thousand years? Oh, Homer, don’t! The gods will hear you and be jealous.

  HOMER

  (Looking up humorously)

  All right, gods. I take that back. No thousand years, but just whatever time it pleases you.

  (To PENELOPE)

  Is that better?

  PENELOPE

  (Shocked)

  How can you talk that way? Aren’t you afraid?

  HOMER

  I don’t have to believe everything I sing about the gods, do I? If gods are godlike, then they are much too great to be flattered by the myths men create around them.

  PENELOPE

  (Teasingly)

  I thought everything you composed was based on fact.

  HOMER

  I tell the truth about men and this man-world. But when it comes to gods—well, Penelope, you can be realistic about the earth, but all you can do is speculate about Heaven.

  PENELOPE

  What are you going to call your new poem?

  HOMER

  The Odyssey. The adventures of Odysseus on his long voyage home. When I arrived here this morning, I hoped to find Odysseus and get certain facts from him. I’ve heard plenty of rumours, of course—

  PENELOPE

  (Grimly)

  So have I.

  HOMER

  But I have reliable information that he has left Calypso and her island, and is homeward bound. He’s practically here, Penelope!

  PENELOPE

  If he doesn’t meet another Calypso.

  HOMER

  Penelope, that isn’t like you to be jealous—after all, Odysseus had—

  PENELOPE

  —trouble finding transportation. Yes, I’ve heard that one.

  HOMER

  Now, now, my dear—you’ve got to stop all this. You’ve got to start being Penelope again.

  PENELOPE

  (Pathetically)

  But I am being Penelope.

  HOMER

  I remember Penelope as the patient, faithful wife, who waits for her husband to return from the war. She understands, and to understand is to forgive.

  PENELOPE

  Is it?

  HOMER

  (Ignoring that)

  She is gentle, sweet, trusting, and kind. That’s the Penelope I know. She’s the sort of woman every man wants to come home to.

  PENELOPE

  And he’ll get so bored with her that he’ll run away again! Ulysses has had the taste of adventure, and of a woman like that—like that Calypso. Why, he spent months with her on that island!

  HOMER

  You are judging him before he can tell you what really happened. He may have been shipwrecked. He may have had to build another ship. He may have been ill. And it may have been the island’s fau
lt. It is perhaps a magic island—an island filled with noises, sounds, and sweet airs that give delight—and hurt not.

  (He pauses for a second.)

  Why! That’s not bad, not bad at all. I’ll try to remember that one. It isn’t in my meter, though. Pity... Ah well... Penelope, haven’t you ever dreamed of such an island? Most of us want a magic island, just now and again.

  PENELOPE

  (Bursting into tears, and throwing herself on his breast)

  Oh, Homer, I’m so miserable!

  (He tries to comfort her, clasping her awkwardly.)

  You don’t know what it’s like to wait and wait and wonder if your husband will ever come back to you. Or, when he does, if he still loves you.

  HOMER

  He loves you. He’s coming home, isn’t he?

  PENELOPE

  (Drawing away, and in control of herself again)

  Is he coming home because he loves me? Or is he tired of seeing the world and wouldn’t it be nice to relax with quiet, sweet, gentle, kind Penelope for a while? That’s not good enough!

  HOMER

  Penelope!

  PENELOPE

  You don’t believe me? Oh, Homer, how blind you are!

  (She begins to laugh.)

  HOMER

  (Sharply)

  This is no laughing matter. Do you know what you’re doing? You’re ruining The Odyssey.

  (He strides angrily to the frame.)

  Yes, I’ve composed one of the best passages I’ve ever done— about you, sitting here, day by day, weaving at your loom. And you took up embroidery, instead. Oh, I should never have made a poem about a woman.

  PENELOPE

  (Subdued)

  I didn’t mean to ruin anything.

  HOMER

  You know I pride myself on the accuracy of my details—whether it’s the wine-red sea at sunset; the mountain lion crouching on a jagged crag; or Helen, on the ramparts of Troy, walking in beauty like the night... And you had to go and embroider!