Penelope’s
experience of remaining, running the estate and defending herself from suitors
has always seemed the more interesting part of the story (in the way same way
as it was in Cold Mountain) but the
focus is usually on the male counterpart and his fantastic adventures. Penelope
addresses the reader directly, with a wonderfully clear voice and deadpan
delivery, as she wants to set the record straight and present us with her side
of the story. She has fought hard for the right to speak, as she sets out from
the striking first lines: “Now that I’m dead I know everything. This is what I
wished would happen, but like so many of my wishes it failed to come true. I
know only a few factoids that I didn’t know before. Death is much too high a
price to pay for the satisfaction of curiosity, needless to say.”
She
begins with her birth, and the disappointment of realising that her mother, a
Naiad, doesn’t really care for her, and her father, fearing a prophecy, throws
her into the sea not expecting her to survive. She is understandably bitter: “It
never hurts to be of semi-divine birth. Or it never hurts immediately.” She
proceeds to write about her marriage to Odysseus and consequent move to his
home in Ithaca. Odysseus leaves to fight a war, brought about by Paris of Troy
who ‘steals’ Helen from Menelaus. Women are chattels; pawns in men’s battles.
Penelope is abandoned for years without protection and with a troublesome son,
Telemachus, who doesn’t seem to understand her compromised position or to offer
to help her in any way. She weaves a shroud that she unravels at night,
delaying her marriage decision until its completion, using the only weapons available
to her; cunning and an aptitude for craft. Finally, when Odysseus returns, he
and Telemachus slaughter the suitors and hang twelve of Penelope’s closest
maids, who have been sleeping with them. The reason for this is never really
explained, allowing Atwood free rein with her interpretation of events.
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| Penelope and her Suitors by John William Waterhouse |
Atwood explains in the introduction, that she has recreated the hanged maids as “a chanting and singing Chorus which focuses on two questions that must pose themselves after any close reading of The Odyssey; what led to the hanging of the maids, and what was Penelope really up to?” The Chorus that the maids form provides commentary and diversion as was archetypal in Greek theatre, interpreting the action through song ranging from rap and sea shanties to light operetta and skipping rhymes, which are typically topical: “we are the maids/ the ones you killed/ the ones you failed / we danced in air/ our bare feet twitched/ it was not fair.”
If
there is one thing more interesting than the story, it is in the telling of it,
and here Atwood aligns with and diverges from the traditional Greek structure
like a twisting river. She incorporates the gods and their intervention in
human lives, but she is critical of their motives. She plays with the concept
of Homeric epithets and constant repetition: hell is gloomy; death is dark;
Odysseus is wily; Penelope is faithful; Helen is beautiful; everybody weeps.
Penelope is also aware of the injustice of simple labels, and declares that she
wants to flesh out her character, and to defend herself from the
one-dimensional moral paragon which has been foisted upon her.
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| Penelope by Leandro Bassano |
The
chorus of maids delivers an anthropology lecture at the end; a device Margaret
Atwood has used in both The Handmaid’s
Tale and The Testaments. It makes
the stories more scholarly and academic, tying together the interpretations and
connections, such as the returning king motif and the overthrow of a
matrilineal moon cult.
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| Penelope by Dante Gabriel Rossetti |
