The Penelopey

A Tale of Emotional Wanderings

The Odyssey is a tale of journeys. Dominating the novel are the extended wanderings of the main character, Odysseus Laertiades, as he seeks to restore himself to Ithaka. The early chapters describe a voyage by his son, Telemakhos, who goes abroad to gather news of his father and build a name for himself. The epic also draws on the end of the Trojan War as a backdrop, and contains several sagas in miniature about the returning Akhaians and their individual trips. Yet as pronounced as the physical treks might be, the characters are simultaneously taking journeys of a more intangible nature. The man who casts spite at Polyphemos is a reaver filled with hubris, leading a band of corsairs fresh from the hard blows of war. Odysseus must undergo a painful transformation, regaining his previous nobility and piety, before the gods allow him to reign as king once more. The boy who daydreams amidst the suitors is callow, untested in combat, and ignorant of his duties. Telemakhos must gain experience and guidance before he comes into the flower of his inheritance: to be a man, a prince, and Odysseus' true son.

Yet what of Penelope, the faithful wife of Odysseus? She seems to go nowhere at all, staying at the palace in Ithaka the entire epic. In fact, the reader witnesses her longest journey in Book XXI, when she leaves her tower to fetch the bow from the storeroom and bring it to the main hall. Though her physical travels are limited, her overall journey is nonetheless a profound one. Unlike her husband and son, whose obstacles are clearly and prominently displayed, the vast majority of her roaming is inferred. In order to understand her personal odyssey, one must first comprehend some elements of ancient Greek society. Spinning and weaving, their relation to women, and their symbolic significance as a divine gift need to be examined. Then the crux of Penelope's dilemma is revealed: her web, the withering stasis which prevents her from living her rightful life. Her conversation and reunion with Odysseus are shown as a type of journey and homecoming. At the last, her long emotional wanderings are over.

With the advent of textiles and mass production in our modern age, the once ubiquitous weavers' lore has become the province of a few specialized clothmakers. The fashioning of cloth in ancient times consisted of two major processes, spinning and weaving. Spinning consists of twisting natural fibers into a yarn or thread, typically employing a distaff or spindle. The operation requires dexterity and skill, and the strands often break despite careful handling. Weaving takes the spun threads and interlaces them into a fabric. Strands are stretched across a loom (the warp) and secondary threads are passed up and down among them (the woof). Lastly, to create clothes this fabric is sewn, stitched, or otherwise tacked together. Of course, the preceding is a gross oversimplification; after all, the art of clothmaking has had several millennia to accrue complexity and refinement. However, the description suffices for this paper.

The importance of spinning and weaving in an early society cannot be underestimated. Man is the only animal which clothes himself, a fact not lost on the ancients. "The clothes make the man" is a proverbial truth in a primitive culture. The quality of a garment indicated one's means, and often one's station as well. Uniforms plainly announced the wearer's position and affiliation, whether military, political, or religious. Occupation, geographic region, even education might be guessed from a person's attire. Yet the influence of weavers was not limited to clothing alone. Ships used canvas and sails; spun rope was no less critical. Houses need blankets, tapestries, and curtains. Bags, tents, banners, the list goes on and on. Indelible marks are still visible in our modern language. Consider, the most precious possession which can be passed from generation to generation is an heirloom, quite literally a loom passed on to the family heir.

There are several passages in the novel describing the value of weavings. Nestor takes offense when Telemakhos intends to spend the night aboard ship, declaiming 'am I "some pauper without a stitch, no blankets in the house, no piles of rugs"!' [1]. Alkinoos declares the each Phaiakian lord should "bring a laundered cloak and tunic, and add one bar of honorable gold" [2] for Odysseus on his way home. After the addition of more treasure, Poseidon complains that it might be too much: "Never from Troy had he borne off such booty if he had got home safely with all his share." [3] Aigisthos marvel at Agamemnon's hall, "many a woven and golden ornament hung there, in his satisfaction; he had not thought life held such glory for him." [4] Clothing is also a common gift. Eumaios says it best. "Wandering men tell lies for a nights lodging, for fresh clothing" [5] ... "I suppose you, too, could work your story up at a moment's notice, given a shirt or cloak." [6] The swineherd later fondly recalls when Odysseus' mother "gave [me] new clothing, cloak and sandals, and sent me off to the woodland. Well she loved me." [7] Odysseus' rags declare him as a vagrant beggar; Telemakhos generously grants him a "tunic and cloak of wool" [8]. One concludes that in Greek times, woven cloth is a commodity and finely woven garments a treasure. (This argument is further bolstered by real world examples, such as the wool and silk trades.)

Spinning and weaving have a further association for the Argives: they are solely the province of women. Odysseus marvels at Alkinoos' hall, "strewn with fine embroidered stuff made by the women," [9] in particular the "fifty maids-in-waiting in the household ...[who] wove upon their looms, or twirled their distaffs..." [10] Later the master mariner entreats his own housemaids "to go to the women's chambers, to your queen. Attend her, make the distaff whirl, divert her, stay in her room, comb wool for her." [11] Before the carnage ensues with the suitors, Eurykleia is charged with "the women's doorway. Lock it tight. If anyone inside should hear the shock of arms or groans of men in hall or court, not one must show her face, but go on with her weaving." [12] Telemakhos succinctly summarizes the gender division when he sternly sends his mother away. "Return to your own hall. Tend your spindle. Tend your loom. Direct your maids at work. The question of the bow is for men to settle, most of all for me. I am master here." [13] Vestiges of this separation are again clear in our modern language. Webster's Seventh Collegiate Dictionary defines a distaff as "1a: a staff for holding the flax, tow, or wool in spinning. b: woman's work or domain."

More examination only cements women and weaving, together and inseparable. In all Greek works, particular emphasis is placed on the initial appearance of a character. How do the women first appear? The noble queen of Phaiakia is "near the great hearth among her maids, and twirling out of her distaff yarn dyed like the sea." [14] The reader later witnesses Arete's skill and perception when she recognizes Odysseus' "tunic and cloak to be her own fine work, done with her maids." [15] Helen is accompanied by "a golden distaff, and the silver basket... [was] heaped with fine spun stuff, and cradled on it the distaff swathed in dusky violet wool." [16] Before Telemakhos leaves she gives him a bridal gown, "her own handiwork... so royal... it shimmered like a star." [17] Even the female goddesses are weavers! Near her hearth Calypso is "before her loom a-weaving, she passed the golden shuttle to and fro." [18] From that loom issued "immortal clothing" [19], in particular "a cloak divinely woven" [20] to shield Odysseus on his sea voyage. Kirke is singing "while on her loom she wove ambrosial fabric sheer and bright, by that craft known to the goddesses of heaven." [21] Though the reader never actually sees the Naiades, Homer at least describes the "looms of stone, great looms, whereon the weaving nymphs make tissues." [22]

So strong is the connection between women and weaving, it is instructive to consider the cases where a woman isn't first seen weaving. Eurykleia, aged and arthritic, is much too old to weave with any skill. One suspects that she has done so, though, since the fifty housemaids were "trained by [Penelope] and [her] in service, wool carding and the rest of it." [23] Nausikaa debuts asleep; not being seen weaving is forgivable in this case as the young lady's first thoughts are of washing linen in preparation for marriage, two other duties within a woman's sphere. The parade of female shades also cannot weave, since they have "no flesh and bone... dreamlike the soul flies, insubstantial." [24] Athena, despite being the patron of weavers, is never seen at loom or distaff. The grey-eyed goddess is still described as "tall and beautiful and no doubt skilled at weaving splendid things." [25] Penelope is originally presented in Book I circa line 379, and is the first mortal woman witnessed by the reader. There are a host of references to her skills, but in those first lines no allusion is made to spinning or weaving. Moreover, she is never seen weaving. This omission is deliberate; what does it signify?

The solution lies with a different question: what does spinning and weaving mean to the Akhaian audience? "Wise Athena [makes women] practiced in her arts" [26], and "women [are] skilled at the loom, having this lovely craft and artistry as talents from Athena." [27] Women are not the only ones gifted by heaven; for example, Hephaistos grants men metalworking. The most precious thing in Menelaos' house is "a wine bowl, mixing bowl, all wrought of silver... It is Hephaistos work." [28] The reader is continually reminded that all such skill comes from the gods... "Think of gold infused on silver by a craftsman, whose fine art Hephaistos taught him, or Athena." [29] Clearly craftsmanship, such as weaving, is a divine gift. [This author believes that, in fact, much more was true. Athena and Hephaistos do not just foster mortals' expertise... they gave them the talent. These 'crafty' gods do not favor woman and men because it pleases them, they lend their support because without it mortal craft would not be possible. This is consistent with the Greek view of civilization as a divine formation; the gods grant noble culture to humanity, as mortals cannot create it themselves. It is further consistent with the dual meaning of the word gift, both as a boon and an ability.]

Further contemplate the image of the three Fates: Klotho, Atropos, and Lachiesis. Mythology has them determining the lot of every man, "his fate... the Spinners spun for him on the day his mother bore him." [30] The allegory is simple: the life of every man is a thread spun from the spindle of the Fates. Recall that spinning is a fickle thing; threads snap unexpectedly, despite all care. So too are men's lives cut short, both Kings and paupers alike. Given that strands are lives, what might a woven fabric symbolize? A family, a kingdom, the whole Greek civilization? All interpretations serve equally well. The process of weaving takes delicate threads and makes a strong fabric from them. In a similar manner do individual people, weak and susceptible to the dangers of an uncertain world, group together for mutual protection. A good weave is not haphazard but rather carefully created. Kingdoms are likewise orderly constructions, with laws and customs meticulously applied. Lastly, past the mechanics of a weave lies the art, that which makes it pleasing to those who behold it. So too do some societies stand as beauties, a smooth joy to its constituents and visitors.

Here lies a revealing juxtaposition: a weave is a symbol for society, and weaving is the domain of women. Engaging in some loose and unfounded speculation, one might conclude that women are somehow responsible for weaving society. After all, women create 'new threads' for the culture, in the form of newborn infants. The family is their fabric, woven using several generations. Combining this imagery with other icons, such as the hearth and bed, one suspects that women are the caretakers of life in the Greek world. This position is highly debatable, especially given the inferior status of females in Argive society; both sexes had their rightful places, and women were naturally subordinate to men. This author suggests that somehow, despite being clearly lesser than males, females were thought no less important to a complete civilization. The two ideas coexist and complement each other in a fashion difficult to understand today (founded on premises such as gender and racial equality). In any event, one statement can be safely made: women are divinely ordained as spinners and weavers, and they belong at home maintaining the cycle of life. It is their place and their duty.

Consider the goddess Athena, who sponsors women's weaving by her patronage. In Greek mythology, she is equally warrior and weaver combined. Her militant aspect is of might employed in the cause of law or justice. This stands in stark contrast the other Greek god-warrior Ares, who is force personified, chaos and power run rampant in war. Both Athena's spheres of influence are joined by a single purpose: to preserve civilization. The entire epic is rife with her intervention toward this goal. The action begins when Athena prompts her father about Odysseus and ends when she arbitrates peace on Ithaka. In between she contrives the whole narrative; except for Odysseus' colorful wanderings, her hand is seen in every Book. Odysseus is perfectly matched to Athena, representing both her aspects as crafty strategist and just warrior. The goddess tells him: "Two of a kind, we are, contrivers both... I am always with you in times of trial, a shield to you in battle." [31] He immediately perceives Athena's agenda; after she describes the suitors' uncivilized behavior he exclaims, "Weave me a way to pay them back! And you, too, take your place with me, breathe valor in me..." [32] The great king realizes he is an instrument employed by the gods: "Destiny and the gods' will vanquished these [suitors], and their own hardness." [33] Athena is indeed a weaver; she creates a fabric of events. It would be no exaggeration to treat the whole Odyssey as Athena's personal weave.

Like her husband, Penelope has also been blessed by Zeus' daughter, having "Athena's gifts, talent in handicraft and a clever mind; so cunning history cannot show the like..." [34] [Recall that, to the Greeks, craftsmanship and craftiness were much the same thing. Athena's "fame is for wisdom among the gods - deceptions, too." [35] Hephaistos uses both his craft and craftiness to snare Aphrodite and Ares together in his bed. [36] Talent and cunning, though not equivalent, were closely related.] She has resourcefully held off the suitors by "holding out hope to all, and sending promises to each man privately, but thinking otherwise." [37] The ruse of the web is her quintessential craftiness. "Here is an instance of her trickery: she had her great loom standing in the hall and the fine warp of some vast fabric on it... It is a shroud [she weaves] for Lord Laertes... So every day she wove on the great loom, but every night by torchlight she unwove it; so for three years she deceived the Akhaians... She had to finish then, although she hated it." [38] This is the first of three occasions that the web is mentioned, and in this premiere everything seems straightforward. The devoted wife is awaiting her husband's return, nothing is wrong, and Penelope has it all under control.

Yet something is amiss. Telemakhos remarks to Theoklymenos: "Mother will never see you; she almost never shows herself at home to the suitors there, but stays in her high chamber weaving upon her loom." [39] That she weaves all day is appropriate, but shouldn't Penelope be welcoming a guest? In every other civilized household guests are welcomed, from bountiful Skheria to the hut of the swineherd. Penelope exclaims upon seeing Medon: "Why have [the suitors] sent you up here now? To tell the maids of King Odysseus 'Leave your spinning: Time to go down and slave to feed those men!'" [40] It is again seemly that the maids are weaving, but there is "impudent folly in the slinking maids" [41] who go "as many a night before, to the suitors' beds." [42] Such wantonness would never be tolerated in a properly ordered house. Penelope herself is distraught, "her days and nights go by forlorn, in lonely weeping." [43] It is easy to assume that she yearns for Odysseus, after all she still "loves him well" [44] and "wanted no suitors." [45] This seems like a reasonable excuse for why her house is in disrepair. But Homer gives an explicit explanation for Penelope's turmoil, and it is not pining for her lost husband.

Telemakhos summarizes his mother's fundamental dilemma: "Spurn [the suitors] she dare not, though she hates that marriage, nor can she bring herself to choose among them." [46] He later reemphasizes this: "mother is in a quandary, whether to stay with me... honoring her lord's bed... or take the best Akhaian who comes her way - the one who offers most." [47] Penelope herself concurs: "My forlorn thought flows variable... shall I stay beside my son and ... honor my lord's bed? Or had I best join fortunes with a suitor, the noblest one, most lavish in his gifts?" Penelope's difficulty is not in fending off the suitors; she has deftly kept them at bay for almost four years. Her problem is she cannot make the decision she must. A true romantic might balk at this; she should remain true to Odysseus, of course! But even today a man is legally declared dead after seven years, and the Ithakan King has been missing for a decade. The Odysseus of twenty years ago charged his young wife "wait for the beard to darken our boy's cheek; then marry whom you will, and move away." [48] For the Greek reader, her choice is clear: she should remarry. More than Odysseus' words, it is her divine place, as weaver and progenitor of life. Penelope is aware of both this obligation and her denial of it. "The years he spoke of are now past; the night comes when a bitter marriage overtakes me." [49]

The web thus possesses another meaning. Penelope weaves and then unweaves, her work remaining stationary. Her web is a device for slowing time, to bring her life to stasis, to freeze herself against adversity. She desperately needs this delay, to abnegate the choice that is so hateful to her. For if she is compelled to decide, her life forced to resume, she knows she has no other option than to select a suitor. Penelope acknowledges this during the second description of the web: "Ruses served my turn to draw the time out... [the suitors] caught me... I had no choice but to finish it. And now, as matters stand at last, I have no strength to evade a marriage... my parents urge it upon me, and my son will not stand while they eat up his property." [50] This stands in contrast to Telemakhos earlier stance, who "being still a callow boy forbade marriage." [51] On all sides Penelope is pressured to accept matrimony; though in her heart she does not want to, she must put her first love behind her. She must leave "Odysseus' bed... empty for some gloomy spider's weaving" [52] and remember it in dreams only. A new life must be woven.

The discourse between Penelope and Odysseus in Book XIX is now exposed as a double masterpiece. On one level, Penelope is aiding her husband with the idea of the bow. She places into his hands a means to overcome the suitors. On a different level, Odysseus is aiding his beloved wife with his wisdom. He leads her from her deadlock and lends her the will to resume living. The conversation is highly symmetric; both give the other what they need the most. Neither can complete the last leg of their respective journeys without their spouse's help. How exactly does Odysseus assist Penelope with his words? One must undertake a point by point examination to see.

The conversation begins when Penelope asks her guest's identity. The beggar's opening lines are a subtle and gentle rebuke. "My lady, never a man in the wide world should have a fault to find with you... Do not enforce me to recall my pain. My heart is sore; but I must not be found sitting in tears here... It is not well forever to be grieving." [53] His reprimand is fearfully accurate: Penelope's manor is in disarray and "forlorn her days and nights go by, her life used up in weeping." [54] His questions stands: 'How could you let things get this way?' Penelope senses the disapproval, and her reply is defensive: "Stranger, my looks, my face, my carriage, were soon lost or faded when the Akhaians crossed the sea to Troy... grief... heaven sent me - years of pain... Can I give proper heed to guest or suppliant or herald on the realm's affairs? How could I? wasted with longing for Odysseus..." [55] To paraphrase the answer: 'I am not the woman I once was... under the circumstances, can I be blamed? I've done the best I can.' After her description of the web Odysseus divines the true cause of her difficulties, and then assumes the role of guide, to lead her from her frozen stasis.

The beggar starts by bringing her back twenty years ago, mentioning his connection with Odysseus before war touched the man. He describes in passing the mundane duties of a host, calling to mind how a proper house should function. These words reduce Penelope to tears, but her weeping is now different. "The skin of her pale face grew moist the way pure snow softens and glistens... as the snow melts, mountains streams run full, so her white cheeks were wetted by these tears... relieving tears were shed." [56] Penelope has been frozen pure for many years, but she is thawing by the beggar's words, flowing again on a natural path. As skeptical as her husband, she demands confirmation from her guest. The reply is a work of art. "Lady, so long a time now lies between, it is hard to speak of it... but I shall tell what memory calls to mind. A purple cloak, and fleecy he had on, a double thick one... Odysseus' shirt I noticed, too - a fine closefitting tunic like dry onion skin, so soft it was, and shiny. Women there, many of them, would cast there eyes on it... and I too made him gifts... and sent him off in his trim ship with honor." [57] The passage can be read as a simple description of a young Odysseus, vivid in its detail as proof of the beggar's veracity. But it can also be read as a description of Penelope. Who made the finery? Who gave them to Odysseus? The beggar is talking about gifts, and he makes Penelope remember her own; as she gave these garments to her husband, so too was she given her talents from the gods. He is asking, 'You were once a master weaver; are you a weaver still?'

The next exchange shows Penelope has indeed become mindful of her neglected responsibilities. When she bemoans her lost husband, the beggar responds, "Honorable wife of Odysseus Laertiades, you need not stain your beauty with these tears, nor wear yourself out grieving for your husband," [58] and then proclaims that an older Odysseus, who has survived the Trojan war and hard roving, is being shipped home by the Phaiakians and will soon be at hand. The simple interpretation is that the beggar is slyly asking for passage, and to this the lady of the house replies. She says, "my heart tells me what must be. Odysseus will not come home to me; no ship will be prepared for you." [59] This is the point of reversal for Penelope. The beggar has painted clear portraits of proper households, ones in which guests are provisioned, given gifts, and furnished passage. The queen, who previously declared that she cannot give heed to a guest, now says, "Maids, maids: come wash him, make a bed for him... he'll take his place beside Telemakhos in the feasting hall... How will you understand me, friend, how find in me, more than in common women, any courage or gentleness, if you are kept in rags and filthy at our feast? ... one whose heart and ways are kind - of him strangers bear report to the wide world, and distant men will praise him." [60] Penelope has definitely decided to resume her duties. The beggar declines bed and bath, unless there is an old servant to wash his feet. The famous recognition scene with Eurykleia occurs, but "Athena had bemused the queen, so that she took no notice, paid no heed." [61]

Penelope is deep in thought... what could she possibly be thinking of? She is considering the duty she has dreaded the most, to resume her weaving as another's wife. "Is it time now for that?" [62] she asks herself. The answer is unavoidable. "It is a black day, this that comes. Odysseus' house and I are to be parted... The who easily handles and strings the bow and shoots through all twelve axes I shall marry, whoever he may be - then look my last on my first love's beautiful brimming house." [63] On the author's first reading of the epic this decision seemed unnaturally abrupt: why is she giving up now, after hanging out for so long? But within the framework just developed, Penelope's decision is not only predictable but also inevitable. Convention, the gods, and her own nature will not allow her to make any other choice. One might also speculate that she has come to a painful realization about her first love during her reflection: she "will not meet the man again returning to his own home fields," [64] "the man she married in her girlhood, lay with in love, bore children to." [65] That young lover is forever gone. If the king did indeed return, it would be someone she has not seen for twenty years, who knew nine harrowing years of war and faced unknown dangers a decade more. That older Odysseus might well be a worse choice for husband than one of the suitors.

The conversation between the queen and the beggar is quite possibly one of the finest dialogues ever written. At the opening, they are a 'lady' whose house is in disorder and a 'stranger' to whom no heed can be paid. But soon the beggar becomes a 'friend' and 'dear guest', while the queen becomes a 'dear honorable lady, wife of Odysseus Laertiades.' It is a subject of debate whether Penelope is truly aware of the beggar's identity, and similarly, one wonders whether Odysseus really grasps the queen's internal dilemma. This author likes to believe they are both cognizant, but the beauty of the conversation lies in its fourfold ambiguity. The dialogue does indeed support the interpretation where both are unwittingly helping the other, and every combination in between. In the end result, it does not matter whether they are consciously aware of their aid. Odysseus and Penelope are in "harmonious converse" with one another, "the best thing in the world being a strong house held in serenity where man and wife agree." [66]

Penelope has broken free from her web, but the decision to resume her life as another's wife is still hateful to her. She contemplates suicide upon awakening, praying to Artemis for death: "Let me be blown out by the Olympians! Shot by Artemis..." [67] One envisions that she is still far from her appointed place; she would prefer a certain death with Odysseus to an uncertain life with a suitor. The next day when she fetches the bow, it is indeed her longest journey. She is finally prepared, and proclaims "Who sends an arrow through iron axe-helve sockets, twelve in a line? I join my life with his, and leave this place, my home, my rich and beautiful bridal house." [68] The contest and carnage ensues. When the nurse Eurykleia joyously tells Penelope her husband has returned, the queen is skeptical. Her deliberation is reminiscent of Odysseus himself: "Had she better keep her distance and question him, her husband? Should she run up to him, take his hands, kiss them now?" [69] When she spies the vanquisher, she looks on "in wonderment - for sometimes as she gazed she found him - yes, clearly - like her husband, but sometimes blood and rags she saw." [70]

Why is she so circumspect? After all, this is her heart's desire made manifest. But recall her dual difficulty. First, she has been in stasis for so long that she is hesitant to continue the weave of her life. Second, she has long feared the arrival of an impostor, mortal or divine. Clearly the man before her is a master warrior who stands well with the gods (if not a god himself). But is he her Odysseus? The man she loved and was loved by? This is why the test of the bed so suddenly converts her. The heat with which the warrior replies shows Penelope beyond doubt that not only is he Odysseus but also he is still in love with her. With their reunion Odysseus is overcome with emotion: "his dear wife, clear and faithful, in his arms, longed for as the sunwarmed earth is longed for by a swimmer... and so she too rejoiced, her gaze upon her husband, her white arms round him pressed as though forever." [71] This swimmer metaphor is obviously applicable to Odysseus, as he actually lived through the circumstances described. But it is no less applicable to Penelope. Odysseus' shipmates once felt as she does: "what joy is this, your safe return! Now Ithaka seems here, and we in Ithaka!" [72] The king carries the essence of home within him, and it is there that Penelope has finally reached. Odysseus summarizes their joint homecoming: "My lady, what ordeals we have not endured! Here, waiting you had your grief, while my return dragged out... But now our life resumes, we've come together for out longed-for bed." [73]

Penelope's journey and homecoming are as essential to the fabric of the Odyssey as her husband's and son's travels. Spinning and weaving are critical components of a well functioning society, and women are as vital to a complete civilization as men. Make no mistake, the epic is a pious story. The suitors, with their recklessness, must be purged; the royal family, with their devoutness, must be restored. The reader is thus given a third and final description of Penelope's web in the last Book. [74] At the end, the weave is finally seen: "the big loom woven tight from beam to beam with cloth. She washed the shrouding clean as sun or moonlight." [75] The same web, which once symbolized Penelope's cunning and then her stasis, now indicates her resumption of her divine place as weaver. The shroud simultaneously indicates that the Ithakan society is whole once more. Somehow the two are inextricably linked, with Penelope as the vinculum. That is why, upon hearing the tale, the shade of Agamemnon praises Penelope [76] and not Odysseus. He knows from bitter experience how easily civilization can be unwoven by women, from Helen and Klytaimnestra. Penelope and Odysseus are truly worthy of one another; both have weathered hard blows on their respective journeys, but eventually found their way home to the other.

Footnotes