to her.
“It is most curious,” she said. “But I love you more than all my other husbands.”
“In the name of heaven, how many have you had?” he cried.
“Ah, don’t say it like that. Not so many, when you consider. I have been a frequent widow, it is true. But, please understand, I am god-descended on both sides. I am immortal and cannot die. I have lived since the beginning of things.”
“Yes. How many husbands have you had?”
“Please, my dear, be fair. Gods have loved me, and satyrs and fauns and centaurs, and other creatures who do not die. But I, I have always had a taste for humankind. My favorite husbands have been men, human men. They, you see, grow old so quickly, and I am alone again. And time grows heavy and breeds mischief.”
“How many husbands have you buried, dear widow?”
“Buried? Why, none.”
“I see. You cremate them.”
“I do not let them die. I cannot bear dead things. Especially if they are things I have loved. Of all nature’s transformations, death seems to me the most stupid. No, I do not let them die. I change them into animals, and they roam this beautiful island forevermore. And I see them every day and feed them with my own hand.”
“That explains those wolves and lions in the courtyard, I suppose.”
“Ah, they are only the best, the cream, the mightiest warriors of ages gone. But I have had lesser husbands. They are now rabbits, squirrels, boars, cats, spiders, frogs, and monkeys. That little fellow there”—she pointed to a silvery little ape who was prancing and gibbering on top of the bedpost—“he who pelts you with walnut shells every night. He was very jealous, very busy and jealous, and still is. I picked their forms, you see, to match their dispositions. Is it not thoughtful of me?”
“Tell me,” said Ulysses, “when I am used up, will I be good enough to join your select band of wolves and lions, or will I be something less? A toad, perhaps, or a snail?”
“A fox, undoubtedly,” she said. “With your swiftness and your cunning ways—oh, yes, a fox. A king of foxes.” She stroked his beard. “But you are the only man who ever withstood my spells,” she said. “You are my conqueror, a unique hero. It is not your fate to stay with me. It is not my happy fate to arrange your last hours.”
“Is it not?” said Ulysses.
“No,” she said. “Unless you can wipe out of your mind all thoughts of home. Unless you can erase all dreams of battle and voyage, unless you can forget your men and release me from my oath and let them become animals, contented animals, then and then only, can you remain with me as husband forever. And I will give you of my immortality. Yes, that can be arranged. I know how. You will share my immortality and live days of sport and idleness and nights of love. And we will live together always, knowing no other, and we will never grow old.”
“Can such a thing be?”
“Yes. But the decision is yours. I have sworn an oath and cannot keep you against your will. If you choose, you can remain here with me and make this island a paradise of pleasure. If not, you must resume your voyage and encounter dangers more dreadful than any you have seen yet. You will watch friends dying before your eyes, have your own life imperiled a hundred times, be battered, bruised, torn, wave-tossed, all this, if you leave me. But it is for you to decide.”
Ulysses stood up and strode to the edge of the terrace. From where he stood he could see the light dancing in a million hot little needles on the blue water. In the courtyard he saw the wolves and the lions. Beyond the courtyard, at the edge of the wood, he saw his men, happy-looking, healthy, tanned; some were wrestling, some flinging spears, others drawing the bow. Circe had crossed to her loom and was weaving, weaving and singing. He remembered his wife. She also, at home in Ithaca, would sit and weave. But how different she looked. Her hair was no fleece of burning gold, but
“It is most curious,” she said. “But I love you more than all my other husbands.”
“In the name of heaven, how many have you had?” he cried.
“Ah, don’t say it like that. Not so many, when you consider. I have been a frequent widow, it is true. But, please understand, I am god-descended on both sides. I am immortal and cannot die. I have lived since the beginning of things.”
“Yes. How many husbands have you had?”
“Please, my dear, be fair. Gods have loved me, and satyrs and fauns and centaurs, and other creatures who do not die. But I, I have always had a taste for humankind. My favorite husbands have been men, human men. They, you see, grow old so quickly, and I am alone again. And time grows heavy and breeds mischief.”
“How many husbands have you buried, dear widow?”
“Buried? Why, none.”
“I see. You cremate them.”
“I do not let them die. I cannot bear dead things. Especially if they are things I have loved. Of all nature’s transformations, death seems to me the most stupid. No, I do not let them die. I change them into animals, and they roam this beautiful island forevermore. And I see them every day and feed them with my own hand.”
“That explains those wolves and lions in the courtyard, I suppose.”
“Ah, they are only the best, the cream, the mightiest warriors of ages gone. But I have had lesser husbands. They are now rabbits, squirrels, boars, cats, spiders, frogs, and monkeys. That little fellow there”—she pointed to a silvery little ape who was prancing and gibbering on top of the bedpost—“he who pelts you with walnut shells every night. He was very jealous, very busy and jealous, and still is. I picked their forms, you see, to match their dispositions. Is it not thoughtful of me?”
“Tell me,” said Ulysses, “when I am used up, will I be good enough to join your select band of wolves and lions, or will I be something less? A toad, perhaps, or a snail?”
“A fox, undoubtedly,” she said. “With your swiftness and your cunning ways—oh, yes, a fox. A king of foxes.” She stroked his beard. “But you are the only man who ever withstood my spells,” she said. “You are my conqueror, a unique hero. It is not your fate to stay with me. It is not my happy fate to arrange your last hours.”
“Is it not?” said Ulysses.
“No,” she said. “Unless you can wipe out of your mind all thoughts of home. Unless you can erase all dreams of battle and voyage, unless you can forget your men and release me from my oath and let them become animals, contented animals, then and then only, can you remain with me as husband forever. And I will give you of my immortality. Yes, that can be arranged. I know how. You will share my immortality and live days of sport and idleness and nights of love. And we will live together always, knowing no other, and we will never grow old.”
“Can such a thing be?”
“Yes. But the decision is yours. I have sworn an oath and cannot keep you against your will. If you choose, you can remain here with me and make this island a paradise of pleasure. If not, you must resume your voyage and encounter dangers more dreadful than any you have seen yet. You will watch friends dying before your eyes, have your own life imperiled a hundred times, be battered, bruised, torn, wave-tossed, all this, if you leave me. But it is for you to decide.”
Ulysses stood up and strode to the edge of the terrace. From where he stood he could see the light dancing in a million hot little needles on the blue water. In the courtyard he saw the wolves and the lions. Beyond the courtyard, at the edge of the wood, he saw his men, happy-looking, healthy, tanned; some were wrestling, some flinging spears, others drawing the bow. Circe had crossed to her loom and was weaving, weaving and singing. He remembered his wife. She also, at home in Ithaca, would sit and weave. But how different she looked. Her hair was no fleece of burning gold, but
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