Book VI

Thus slept the much‑enduring, noble Odysseus there, overcome by sleep and weariness. But Athena made her way to the land and town of the Phaeacians, who once had dwelt in wide‑spaced Hypereia, hard by the Cyclopes, men of overweening hearts, who harried them without cease and were mightier far. Thence godlike Nausithous roused them and led them away;

he settled them in Scheria, far from men who labour for bread; he ran a wall around their city, built houses, raised temples for the gods, and portioned out the ploughland. But he, already overcome by doom, had gone to Hades’ house, and Alcinous was king, who knew shrewd counsels from the gods. To his palace came the goddess, grey‑eyed Athena, devising homecoming for great‑hearted Odysseus.

She entered the richly‑wrought chamber, where a maiden slept, like the deathless gods in stature and in beauty, Nausicaa, daughter of great‑hearted Alcinous, and two handmaids, who had their loveliness from the Graces, one on either side of the doorposts; the shining doors were shut. But she swept like a gust of wind to the girl’s bed, stood just above her head and spoke a word to her, likening herself to the daughter of Dymas, famed for seafaring, a girl of her own age, dear to her heart.

In that form grey‑eyed Athena addressed her: “Nausicaa, why did your mother bear you so careless? Your splendid garments lie neglected, all shimmering things, and your wedding day is near, when you yourself must wear beautiful robes and give the same to those who lead you forth. For from such deeds good report goes up among mankind, and father and honoured mother take delight.

So let us go a‑washing at the break of dawn; I will come along as your work‑mate, so you make ready as quickly as may be, for you will not be a maiden long. Already the best men among all the Phaeacians court you, from the very people among whom your line was born. Come, urge your noble father early morning to harness mules and wagon, that they may carry the girdles, the robes, the bright coverlets. Even for yourself it is far better than going on foot, for the washing‑pools lie a great way from the city.

” So she spoke and departed, grey‑eyed Athena, to Olympus, where they say the seat of the gods stands steadfast forever. Neither winds shake it nor rain ever wets it, nor snow comes near, but a vast cloudless air is stretched, and a white radiance runs over it; therein the blessed gods take pleasure all their days. Thither went grey‑eyed Athena, when she had spoken to the girl.

Straightway Dawn rose from her lovely throne and woke Nausicaa of the fine robes; at once she marvelled at her dream and went through the halls to tell her parents, her dear father and her mother; she found them both within. The mother sat by the hearth with her serving women, spinning sea‑purple wool; the father she met going out to join the famous kings at council, where the noble Phaeacians summoned him.

She stood very near and addressed her dear father: “Dear Papa, will you not have them ready for me a wagon, high, with good wheels, that I may take our lovely clothes to the river to wash them, for they lie all soiled here? And you yourself, it is proper when you are among the foremost of the people, that you wear clean garments for the council. Besides, you have five dear sons within the halls: two of them are married, but three are still unwed, and they always want to go to the dance in freshly‑washed clothes— and all such matters weigh upon my mind.

” So she spoke, for she shrank from naming joyful marriage to her father, but he understood everything and answered: “Neither the mules do I begrudge you, my child, nor anything else. Go, and the slaves shall harness the wagon for you, the high one with good wheels, fitted with a cart‑box.” So saying he called to the slaves, and they obeyed.

They led out the smooth‑running mule‑cart from the yard and brought it, yoked the mules under it, and the maiden carried from her chamber her bright garments, loading them on to the polished wagon. Her mother set in a basket all manner of appetizing food, and put in dainties; she poured wine into a goatskin, while the girl climbed aboard.

Her mother also gave her soft olive oil in a gold flask, that she and her handmaids might anoint themselves after the bath. Then she took the whip and the shining reins and cracked the lash to start them; the mules clattered off eagerly, drawing the wagon, carrying the garments and the girl and her handmaids, who went along with her on foot.

When they came to the lovely stream of the river, where the washing‑pools were always full, and much clear water gushed up from beneath, enough to cleanse the dirtiest cloth, they unyoked the mules from the wagon and let them loose along the bank of the swirling river to graze on sweet clover. Then they took the garments from the wagon in their arms and plunged them into the dark, swift water, trampling them with their feet in the hollow pits, each vying quickly with each.

When they had washed them and rinsed away all the stains, they spread them in rows on the shingle, where the sea, dashing against the beach, scoured the pebbles clean. They themselves bathed, then anointed themselves with olive oil, and took their meal by the river banks; and they left the clothes there to dry in the sun’s glare.

When they had had their fill of the meal, mistress and handmaids, they cast off their veils and began to play at ball, and white‑armed Nausicaa led the game for them. Even as Artemis, the arrow‑showerer, goes along the ridges of Taygetus or Erymanthus, delighting in the boars and swift‑footed deer, and with her the daughters of aegis‑bearing Zeus, nymphs of the field, sport together, and Leto’s heart is glad, for the girl stands head and shoulders above all the company, and her beauty is plain to see, though all are lovely— so did the unmarried princess shine among her handmaids.

But when she was about to harness the mules and go homeward, folding the lovely clothes, grey‑eyed Athena turned her thoughts, how Odysseus might rouse himself and behold the fair‑faced girl, that she might guide him to the Phaeacians’ town. So the princess tossed the ball to one of the handmaids; she missed the catch, and it flew into a deep, swirling eddy.

They all cried out with a great shout. Then noble Odysseus awoke and sat up, and he pondered in his mind and his spirit: “Ah, woe is me! What men have I come to this time? Are they cruel, wild and unjust, or kind to strangers, with minds that fear the gods? Surely the noise of young girls rings around me— nymphs, perhaps, who haunt the steep peaks of the mountains, the springs of rivers and the grassy hollows.

Or am I near men whose speech I understand? Come, I will make trial for myself and see.” So saying he crept from the bushes, noble Odysseus, and with his strong hand he broke from the thicket a leafy branch to screen his nakedness. He came out like a lion that trusts in its strength, which goes on through rain and wind, and its eyes blaze;

it pounces upon cattle or sheep, or chases the wild deer, and hunger drives it to try the very fold of men—so Odysseus was about to go among those fair‑haired girls, naked though he was, for necessity was upon him. He seemed terrible to them all, befouled with brine, and they fled, scattering this way and that along the jutting beaches.

Only the daughter of Alcinous stood there still; for Athena put courage in her heart and took fear from her limbs. She stood firm and faced him, and Odysseus considered whether he should clasp her lovely knees as a suppliant, or stand apart, with honeyed words beseech her, and ask if she would show him the town and give him clothing. As he pondered, it seemed to him better to stand apart and speak soft words, for fear she might grow angry if he touched her knees

. So he spoke a gentle, clever speech: “I am at your knees, my queen—are you a goddess or a mortal? If you are one of the gods who hold the wide heaven, to Artemis, the daughter of great Zeus, I would liken you most in beauty, in stature and in form. But if you are one of mortals who dwell upon the earth, thrice‑blessed are your father and your honoured mother, and thrice‑blessed your brothers.

Surely their hearts glow with joy over you always, when they see such a blossom entering the dance. And he who outranks all the rest with his bride‑price and leads you home as his wedded wife is the most blessed still. For I have never seen such beauty with my eyes, neither man nor woman; awe holds me as I look. Once on Delos I saw such a young upshoot of a palm‑tree by Apollo’s altar—for I came there too, and a great host followed me on that journey which was to bring me to so much misery.

Long I looked upon that palm, amazed at heart, for no such smooth shaft ever rose from the earth. So, lady, I marvel at you, and I dread to touch your knees, though heavy grief is mine. Yesterday, after twenty days, I escaped the wine‑dark sea; until then the waves and swift storms bore me onward from the island of Ogygia.

Now a god has cast me up here, that even here I may suffer some trouble. For I think my sorrows will not end, but before that the gods will bring many things to pass. Pity me, O queen: to you first, after many hardships, I have come. I know none of the people who hold this city and this land. Show me the town, give me some rag to throw about me, if you brought any wrapping for your clothes when you came here.

And may the gods grant you all your heart’s desire: a husband, a home, and like‑mindedness, which is the best of things; for nothing is greater or better than when a husband and wife keep house together with one will—a great grief to their enemies, a joy to their friends, and they themselves know it best.” Then white‑armed Nausicaa answered him: “Stranger, because you seem no base or foolish man— Zeus, the Olympian, himself distributes prosperity to men, good and bad alike, to each as he will, and he must have given you this lot;

so you must bear it. But now that you have come to our city and our land, you shall lack neither clothing nor anything else which the hard‑pressed suppliant deserves. I will show you the town and tell you the people’s name. The Phaeacians hold this city and this land, and I am the daughter of great‑hearted Alcinous, on whom the Phaeacians rest their strength and power.”

She spoke, and called to her fair‑haired handmaids: “Stand still, girls! Where are you fleeing, just because you saw a man? Do you think he is one of our enemies? There is no mortal living, and never shall be born, who could come to the land of the Phaeacians bringing war, for we are very dear to the immortals. We live far off, on the last wave, in the surging sea, and no other mortals have dealings with us. This man is a poor wanderer who has come here, and we must care for him now. All strangers and beggars come from Zeus, and the gift, though small, is dear. Come, give the stranger food and drink, my girls, and bathe him in the river, where there is shelter from the wind.

” So she said, and they halted and called to one another, and they seated Odysseus in a sheltered place, as Nausicaa, the daughter of great‑hearted Alcinous, commanded. Beside him they set a tunic and a cloak for clothing, and they gave him the soft olive oil in the gold flask, and told him to bathe in the flowing river. But among them, noble Odysseus spoke to the handmaids: “You stand aside now, girls, while I myself wash the salt from my shoulders and rub on the oil, for from my skin the unction has long been far. But I will not bathe in your presence, for I am ashamed to stand naked among fair‑braided maidens.

” So he spoke, and they withdrew, and went to tell the princess. Then noble Odysseus washed away from his skin the brine that clung to his broad back and strong shoulders, and scraped from his head the scurf of the barren sea. When he had bathed all over and anointed himself richly, and put on the clothes the unwed maiden gave him, Athena, daughter of Zeus, made him taller and more massive to behold, and from his head she made the thick locks fall, like hyacinth flowers.

As when a man plates silver with gold, a cunning craftsman whom Hephaestus and Pallas Athena have taught every skill, and he fashions graceful works— so she poured grace upon his head and shoulders. Then he sat down a little way off, by the seashore, gleaming with beauty and grace, and the princess marvelled. She spoke at once to her fair‑haired handmaids: “Listen, white‑armed girls, to what I say. Not without the will of all the gods who hold Olympus does this man mingle with the godlike Phaeacians. He seemed before a rough, unseemly fellow, but now he looks like the gods who dwell in the wide heaven. Would that such a one might be called my husband, dwelling here, and that it pleased him to stay. But come, girls, give the stranger food and drink.

” So she spoke, and they hearkened readily and obeyed; and they set food and drink beside Odysseus, and the much‑enduring, noble Odysseus ate and drank eagerly, for he had tasted nothing for a long time. Then white‑armed Nausicaa thought of another thing. She folded the clothes and stowed them on the fine‑wheeled wagon, yoked the strong‑hoofed mules, and herself climbed aboard.

She called to Odysseus, and addressed him with these words: “Rise now, stranger, and make for the city, so I may bring you to the house of my prudent father, where, I promise, you will see the best of all the Phaeacians. But act as I tell you; you seem no fool. While we go through the fields and ploughland the men have tilled, go swiftly with my handmaids, behind the mules and wagon, and I will lead the way.

But when we near the city— a high wall runs around it, and a fair harbour on either side, and a narrow causeway, where the curved ships are dragged up along the road, for every man has his own slip— there is also a meeting‑place near the noble shrine of Poseidon, paved with huge blocks of stone, hauled into place, where they repair the tackle of the dark ships, the ropes and sails, and smooth the oars.

The Phaeacians care little for bow and quiver; their delight is masts, oars and balanced ships, with which they cross the grey salt sea—I would avoid their sharp tongues, that some man behind me might not find fault; they are an arrogant people in the town. A meaner fellow might say, ‘Who is this handsome tall stranger who goes with Nausicaa?

Where did she find him? He will be her husband, surely. She must have brought some shipwrecked man from his own ship, a wanderer from a distant land, for no one lives near; or it may be some god, long prayed for, has come from heaven, and he will have her for ever. Better still, she has gone herself and found a husband elsewhere;

she scorns the Phaeacians among whom she has so many excellent suitors, the best men.’ So they will say, and the talk would be my disgrace. I myself would blame another girl who did such things, if against her parents’ will, while both are living, she mingled with men before her open wedding. Listen now, stranger, to what I say, and you may quickly win my father to help you send a convoy home.

You will find a beautiful grove of Athena near the road, a poplar grove; a spring runs through it, and a meadow lies all around. There is my father’s estate and his flowering orchard, as far from the town as a man’s shout can carry. Sit down there and wait a while, until we go into the city and reach my father’s palace.

Then, when you think we have reached the house, go into the Phaeacian city and ask for the palace of great‑hearted Alcinous. It is easy to recognise; a child, even a mere babe, could guide you there. For the Phaeacian houses are not built like the palace of Alcinous, the hero. Once you have entered the house and the courtyard, go quickly through the great hall to my mother.

She sits by the hearth in the firelight, spinning sea‑purple wool, a marvel to behold, leaning against a pillar, and her handmaids sit behind her. And there my father’s throne leans against the same pillar, where he sits and drinks his wine like an immortal. Pass him by, and go and throw your arms around my mother’s knees, if you wish to see your day of homecoming quickly and with joy, even though you come from very far away. If she shows you good will in her heart, then there is hope that you will see your own folk and come to your well‑built house and your native land.

” So she spoke, and cracked the bright whip on the mules; they left the river‑stream in a flash, trotting well, trotting, and their hooves beat fast. She held the reins skilfully, that the handmaids and Odysseus might follow on foot, using the lash with care. The sun went down, and they came to the glorious grove of Athena, where noble Odysseus sat down. Then straightway he prayed to the daughter of great Zeus: “Hear me, Athena, child of aegis‑bearing Zeus, and listen now, since before you never heard me when I was battered, while the famous Earth‑shaker battered me. Grant that I come to the Phaeacians as a friend and pitied.

” So he prayed aloud, and Pallas Athena heard him; but she did not yet appear before him in her own form, for she still feared her father’s brother, who raged with relentless anger against godlike Odysseus, until the man reached his own land.