Dear wife,

The thresher slowly gathered then his holy flock,
his two exhausted ox, his goats, his sheep, his dogs,
and all in sluggish kinship moved towards their poor hut.
His humble bedmate lit the oil-lamp in the hearth
then spread the low stool for their supper silently
and brought the lukewarm water to wash her husband's knees.
Mother by mother taught, their wives had knelt like slaves
to wash the hairy knees of their task-weary lords
who rested and rejoiced like gods in their own yards.
But as the plowman sat that night on his low wall
and watched his plucky wife kneel down to wash his feet,
he suddenly kicked the tub and sent the water splashing.
"Dear wife", he cried, "you're not a slave to kneel before me!
Know that from this time forth I'll wash my feet myself."
He spoke, and with his words slew an ancestral ghost.

Nikos Kazantzakis, Odysseia, VI.612-626, Kimon Friar (trad)