In 1991 I acquired the paperback edition of A Commentary on Homer’s Odyssey by Stephen Huebeck, Stephanie West, and J.B. Hainsworth, which had first appeared in hardback from Clarendon in 1988. I spent two years doing my own translation. Since the publication of that three-volume work, there has been a plethora of translations of the Odyssey into English. I labored over many drafts. Here is my version of Book One.
Odyssey
Translated by Kevin T McEneaney
BOOK ONE
A man famous for subtle stratagems—
Muse, touch my tongue—he traveled so widely
after torching the tall towers of Ilios—
a wanderer skilled in tacking sudden gusts
who tramped through a multitude of cities,
and knew how men there thought about life
as he suffered much grief in his heart
while attempting to bring back home his companions,
though even he could not save them from folly,
for they butchered the oxen of Helios that pull the chariot
of the Sun through the dark days we inhabit.
I, too, want to know how it all happened,
how he breathed the same breeze we now inhale.
When Dawn rose from the white sheets of Tithonus,
She who brings light to mortals and gods,
calling to council great Zeus the High-Thunderer
and the councilors who advise his will,
Athena, who pitied shipwrecked Odysseus,
caught in the lithe arms of beautiful Calypso,
addressed the gathering at large:
“Our Father and all who are blessed in heaven,
I pray that there is not a ruler alive just and merciful.
I hope they are all cruel tyrants, governing with greed,
for there is not anyone who remembers Odysseus,
who once ruled men with fatherly kindness.
He now languishes in the hands of the nymph Calypso,
a prisoner in a cave, unable to sail home,
possessing neither jib nor mates
to ply the wide ocean’s chains.”
Turning to his favorite son, great Zeus said:
“Hermes, tell Calypso of the enchanting tresses
that her time with Odysseus is over.
Let him leave without help of men or gods,
storm-tossed on a log raft for twenty days
before touching the shore of prosperous Scheria
where dwell the near-godly Phaiakians
who will honor him—as if he were a god—
and return him by ship to the fields of his fathers,
giving him more tunics, weapons, gold rings
than he could have carried away from Troy:
for his noble destiny is to see once again
the sun glittering on the roofs of his ancestors.”
The Argus-slayer and Pathfinder immediately bent
to tie his golden-winged sandals with which he walks on water,
or surfs in air currents around mountain peaks.
Staff in hand—with which he puts to sleep or awakens men—
he stepped into sheer air and plunged down Pieria
to the salt-brine ocean, skimming over waves
like a cormorant hunting fish in the crests of waves.
He soared just above the swells until he spied the far-flung island
where Calypso hid her charms and careening over a breaker,
alighted on fine-grained sand, walking toward her grotto
to find the lovely Mistress before a hearth-fire burning cedar,
its scent tinged with thyme. She was singing at her loom,
her voice and shuttle both golden in dulcet tone.
Outside was an echoing wood of alder, poplar, fragrant cypress.
There peacocks boasted, unfolding their hundred eyes
while horned owls, hawks, falcons, pelicans, gulls
circled above, scanning the beach for nourishment.
Climbing the smooth walls of her cave, a vine twined
with purple bloom under an aura of green light.
Bubbling up from the ground were four close-clustered, clear springs,
their channels meandering through beds of violets and parsley.
Even a god who entered this grove would halt in astonishment,
feel his heart beat in wonder—as I did one sunny day in Samé;
so Hermes felt, but when he grew accustomed to the light,
he advanced into the cave. Calypso spotted him at once,
since every immortal knows the powers of another god,
no matter what culture or land they come from.
Yet Odysseus was not in the cave—he sat in exile
on the strand lamenting his fate, watching the waves break
on the shore, thinking of the distant rocks he called home.
Smiling Calypso seated her guest in a smooth stone chair
as watery reflections bounced about the walls of the cave.
“What brings Hermes and his golden staff to my humble cave?
You’ve come to visit me so little in the past.
What is it that I can do for you, and do it I will,
if it’s the proper thing to do. But first,
let’s have a drought of nectar before we discuss things.”
She pushed a golden platter of ambrosia toward him,
then mixed and poured a goblet of apricot-scented nectar—
the sprightly-winged Pathfinder took his fill.
“Face to face, goddess to god, we speak,
yet you pretend not to know what’s going on.”
“I do the will of Zeus and do not act on my own whim.
You live far away over boundless seas and no one here worships me
with sacrifice of heifers or even fruits of the garden.
But you, you cannot even think of evading the will of Zeus—
that is not possible for any immortal!”
“Of those who fought nine years against King Priam,
my Father takes note of the most ill-starred of those heroes
who brought low the fabled fort of Troy.
It’s true that they were remiss in godly devotion
and Poseidon unleashed his tempests upon them—
they all perished but the one who arrived here.
Now Zeus claims him: release him immediately!
The fate of his homecoming is at hand
when he will claim his wife and family!”
She shivered, tossing her golden tresses,
and her silver voice turned leaden:
“You priggish gods, always laden with jealousy—
when a goddess chooses a man for her satisfaction
you find some nicety of objection in it.
When glorious Dawn took Orion to bed
you found their lovemaking blasphemous
and golden-arrowed Artemis hunted him down,
pinning him to the ground in Delos.
When long-haired Demeter fell for Iasion
in a thrice-ploughed open field,
Zeus could not bear the sight of their pleasure
and hurled a bolt of lightning into his loins.
So now, I, too, am begrudged a mortal lover,
even though it was I alone who rescued him
when I saw him astride the keel of a broken boat,
destroyed by a lightning bolt from the hand of Zeus:
he was drowning in the wine-dark sea,
but the currents and wind brought him here to me!
I grew fond of this castaway, fed him, loved him,
promised him the pleasure of eternal youth.
But I am no match for the will of Zeus….
If I must surrender my handsome mate,
I will let him go but I have not the means to help him—
neither crew nor ship nor provisions.
I can only offer advice with complete honesty,
no more can I do to bring him to his home.”
Curtly, the Pathfinder answered her:
“You will send him off then. In future
show more compliance, or bear the wrath of Zeus!”
Hermes quickly left. Calypso walked out, looking for Odysseus.
She found him on the beach, moored in self-pity,
looking thin, immersed in nostalgia for home,
displaying no pleasure at her arrival.
At night he would lie beside her willing body,
empty of any urge to satisfy his body,
yet, of necessity, he did her will in the dark,
but in daylight shunned her presence.
Calypso cupped his ear with her hand and whispered:
“No need to mourn anymore, I am sending you onward.
Get up, cut some trunks with a sharp bronze ax,
bind the beams with vine, make a raft with upper deck.
I will give you bread, wine, and water as well as clothing.
I will conjure a fair wind to shift you seaward
for your long voyage home, if the gods so will it—
they, not I, hold your destiny in their hands.”
Odysseus, at a loss for words, shrugged her off,
but when he spoke his words flew like an arrow:
“Suddenly, after seven months, you would help me?
Are you plotting my death at the bottom of the sea?
How can a mere raft cross the Western Ocean
when well-built ships often founder in tempests?
I’ll board no raft to Hades unless you swear a great oath
not to work any of your immortal magic against me!”
Calypso gave out her sweetest smile,
laying her hand on his shoulder, she said:
“You speak like a captain in peril, and perhaps you are right
in asking this oath from me.
I swear by sky and earth and the water
that runs below in the river Styx—
I can swear by no more than these sacred three—
that I will not cast any spell whatsoever against you,
but what I will do will only be what you yourself desire.
I speak honestly because my heart is not made of iron,
and I feel it is time that I should help you go home.”
She strode rapidly before him to the cave
and they entered, goddess and man.
Odysseus sat in the chair Hermes had left
and slender Calypso placed before him bread, fish, wine.
She sat facing Odysseus while her maids
brought her nectar and ambrosia.
Then each began to eat with pleasant cheer.
When they were finished she said:
“Odysseus, noble son of Laertes,
after all these months of pleasure with me,
do you really want to return home
and not be lord of my magic world?
If so, I freely grant your wish,
but if you could foresee the trials you will undergo,
you might well choose to stay here with me and be immortal.
That bride you pine for from dawn to sunset,
can she be more beautiful than I?
More interesting, fascinating, intelligent?
How can a mortal compare to a goddess?”
Odysseus, ever the strategist, replied:
“No mortal can compare to your beauty and stature.
My wife Penelope is but a shadow to your figure.
You cannot age, but wrinkles, decay, and death
will be our common fate. I cannot explain why,
yet I long for my home, the walls of my house.
If any god has singled me out for shipwreck,
that I could bear if I knew I would arrive back home.
What horrors have I not faced that could be worse—
either in battle or at sea? Let hardship come as it may!”
As he spoke, the sun set, twilit blue gave way to darkness,
and these two retired to the inner chamber of the cave
where they sported in love and mutual slumber.
Odyssey, Book Two: Man of Sorrows
When Dawn first stretched out fingers of rosy hue,
Odysseus rose, clasping on a blue tunic and dark cloak,
while the nymph dressed in a shining white robe,
woven from the finest fleece, girdling her midriff
with a belt of hammered gold, a veil over her face.
She contemplated how she could aid Odysseus’ journey.
First, she gave him a great two-headed bronze axe,
the shaft made of smooth olive wood, well-balanced;
next a gleaming adze; then led him to the far end of the island
where the tallest trees grew: alder, black poplar, giant firs,
many dead and seasoned, buoyant, and suitable for a raft.
After showing him her treasure of timber,
she melted away through the screen of leaves.
Odysseus raised his great axe and by noon
had felled twenty giant trees. Then he sawed off branches,
split huge trunks, trimmed lines straight and true.
Calypso appeared casually with an auger
with which he drilled his planks,
driving bolts to fasten them side by side.
Master shipwrights build broad, shallow hulls—
likewise, Odysseus framed the bottom of his raft.
Above the skeleton ribs, he set up deck planks,
running a gunwale around it. Then he hauled up a mast,
fitting an upper deck to it for lookout.
He planned a steering oar from pine.
Between the seams, he drove in strands of willow
to caulk leaks, then stacked in logs for ballast.
And for sail, Calypso brought broad sheets of oilcloth
that he trimmed for his rigging, hauled the boat,
rocking on logs, down to the bright margin of wave.
That was on the fourth day when the boat was finished.
On the morning of the next day, he was to depart,
but first, she demanded to bathe him, presenting him
with a special-scented tunic and a large skin of wine
and an even larger skin of pure spring water, plus jars
of boiled meat, dried fish, vegetables, and fruits.
Her vatic voice rose aloud to conjure a favorable wind—
and when the sail billowed, joy flooded Odysseus’ heart!
Now the great seaman leaned on his newly hewn oar,
steering through dusk and the long darkness of night,
eyeing the Pleiades, watching the late-setting Ploughman,
and the Great Bear (some have called it the Chariot),
which fixes itself on Orion, a beacon for every mariner—
it alone doesn’t wander or dip into the ocean’s flow.
(Calypso advised him to keep these stars to his left
as he crossed the wide waters.
For seventeen days and nights
he sailed both wet and dry; on the eighteenth
he saw on the horizon the mountains of Scheria
rise in the mist like the hump of a bull
or a curved shield lying on ocean fog.
At this point, earth-shaker Poseidon caught sight of him,
just as he was returning from the mountains of Ethiopia.
Odysseus was plainly visible to him on the open sea.
Poseidon’s anger at Odysseus rose again in his gorge;
muttering to himself he said, “What an affront!
escaping exile, he steers toward land like a bird
sailing free from a cage, but I can cuff him at the wire,
make his landing something he’ll never forget!”
He conjured up high thunder clouds and with his trident
stirred the depths, both hands churning the handle.
Rain swelled in the dark skies, sheets of rain gusted,
blotted out sight of land, day became black night.
From the South and East typhoon winds struck,
shifting northward in a great rising swell.
Stout Odysseus’ knees grew weak,
his heart thumped the register of fear,
and he began to talk aloud to himself:
“Could this be the end when I’m near landfall?
The goddess must have been honest about trials
when she predicted them to arrive.
Now the heavens bear out her prophecy,
the whole welkin bound in torrential tempest,
violent ocean raging like a stuck bull.
There’s no doubt my raft is breaking up
and I’ll be gulping water in the waves.
The Danaans who died on the beaches of Troy
had the luckier death, at least they had pyres!
Would that I had died at their side
that time I defended Achilles’ corpse
when Trojans hurled a shower of spears at me!
I would have had a soldier’s funeral,
praise from all Achaeans, not a weakling’s drowning!”
As he spoke, Poseidon threw a great tidal wave
that snapped the top mast, hurling him overboard,
the oar sundered from his firm grasp.
That wave kept him under water far too long,
its pressure bearing him downward,
tangling him in the tunic Calypso wove for him;
when he surfaced he coughed up brine—
water gushing from his hair and beard.
Groggy as he was, he still thought
to grab hold of the raft, pulling himself
into the hold, hoping to defy death.
The sea tossed the raft into the air
as it does thistle seeds down an autumn road.
From all sides the winds battered and collided,
hurling the raft like a toy and smashing it seaward.
But Inch, daughter of Cadmus, sometimes
called the White Goddess of the foam,
saw him struggling in the waves.
Once she had been a mere mortal,
but was raised by song into immortality.
The Nereid pitied the drowning man,
rose like a seagull from a cresting wave
and perched on the buffeted raft.
“You forsaken man, how have you
much-offended mighty Poseidon?
Though you have earned his bitter wrath,
he will not kill you—you
still have your wits about you.
Do what I tell you: shed that tunic,
give up the ship and swim for shore.
Scheria is not so far, swim hard!
It is fated that you’ll find shelter there!
Here, take my veil as a buoy, being divine
it cannot fail to float you—you will not drown!
But the instant your foot touches sand,
toss it hard back toward the ocean,
then turn your face toward land.”
She removed the veil, handed it to him,
and diving like a gull vanished into blue depths.
But Odysseus was perplexed by this.
He thought: “Can this be a trick of some god?
Am I the scorn of all immortals?
Landfall is surely too far for a swim.
I’ll stay here safely until the storm tires,
unless the raft founders, then I’ll swim for it,
since then, I could do nothing else.
For the moment, the raft is my haven.”
Yet even as he considered what course to take,
Poseidon hefted a wave high as a tower—
just as a blast of wind hitting a mound of chaff
will scatter the dried husks, the wave shattered
the raft’s timbers, scattering them in the brine.
Odysseus mounted a log, riding it like a horse
as he shed Calypso’s elegant tunic.
He tied Ino’s veil around his chest,
plunging headfirst into the waves,
cutting them with his swimmer’s stroke.
The Earth-shaker saw him swimming like a fish,
shook his head and said to himself:
“There you are adrift on the open ocean
until you come to a people blessed by the gods.
You won’t complain that I gave you an easy voyage.”
Whipping the backs of his giant steeds,
he turned toward his fabled palace at Aigai.
Athena, Daughter of Zeus, now took control,
calming the force of the winds and countering
the crests of the waves with a northerly breeze
to help smooth the path of the swimmer heading
for the Phaeacian shore where he would be safe.
But he drifted in the sea two days and two nights,
sure, many times, that he was a dead man,
until the glowing light on the third day
revealed a windless sea and clear skies.
Surfing a small wave, he sighted land.
What a wonderful thing it is to children
when a dear father bedridden with illness
rises up to walk like a man reborn,
cured of pain, resurrected to life by the gods!
That welcome sight of land gave new life to Odysseus
and he swam with vigor once again, panting
to get a toehold on the floor of the earth.
But when he heard the crash of breakers on rocks
and saw cliffs streaming with foam,
his arms weak, his heart grew cold.
He saw no harbor or shoreline to land on,
nothing but crags, reefs, boulders to smash upon.
A heavy sweat came over his forehead and he thought:
“I had lost all hope, yet I swam on like a lemming
only to see what’s not possible. Is this a cruel joke?
After traversing the whole Western Ocean,
I have the pleasure of being ground like wheat.
To my left rocks so sharp, I would bleed to death—
to my right boulders so large I would be battered
as I clung to some outcrop. Before me sheer cliff!
There’s nowhere I could gain a safe foothold,
nowhere could I even stand and fight the tide.
If I swim back out and then down the coast,
would I find a place where I could walk to shore?
And what if another wind were to rise up?
With my luck I might become a shark’s meal.
I now realize how devious and demented is the anger
of the Earth-shaker who takes pleasure in my torture.”
While he was indulging himself in such self-pity,
a surging wave pushed him toward monstrous rocks.
He would have been flayed alive on those sharp spikes
had he not grabbed a ledge of rock with both hands.
Then the backwash of the wave crashed down on him.
If you drag an octopus from its hideout,
its suckers are clotted with tiny stones:
just so, Odysseus left the skin of his hands
clinging to that rock ledge as the wave drove him under.
He would surely have perished from the earth,
had he not had the gift of self-possession.
When the backwash spit him up again,
he kicked out with his legs toward the ocean,
swimming in pain, scanning the coast for sand,
he spotted the mouth of mild river
with level shores on its border.
It was free of rocks and shielded from the wind,
a place possible to try for, yet the current flowed
outward to the ocean and he began to pray:
“Hear me god of the stream! I’m at your mercy.
Save me from the wrath of Poseidon if it’s in your power.
I appeal to you with a sincere and prayerful heart.
Is not the lost wanderer sacred to the gods?
I draw near your presence, wish to grasp
the knees of your river as a suppliant.
Pity me, consider me your debtor!”
As he prayed, the ocean tide began to turn
and he felt the tidal current of the river.
Leaving cresting ocean swells, he met milder
water in the mouth of the river: he swam calmly.
Stepping in the river-bed shallows, his knees buckled,
even his arms gave way when he fell—
all strength drained from his swollen limbs
as brine scalded his throat and eyes.
He lay scarcely breathing, saltwater pouring
from the porches of his ears, nostrils dripping,
unable to utter a syllable or lift an arm.
As air began to fill his lungs, and warmth
returned to his heart and lungs,
he untied Ino’s veil, letting it drift away
in the river’s outbound current
where a white wave lifted the veil
and Ino took it into her hands.
Crawling up the pebbled bank and through
a copse of reeds, he touched earth,
kissed the damp soil with his lips,
and murmured to himself in delirium:
“How much more can this carcass suffer?
Even if I manage not to pass out at dusk,
how can I not freeze from cold fog,
or the morning frost that coats the banks
of rivers at this time of year?
Yet if I climb the bank, enter the forest,
and nest in the warmth of bushes,
finding rest in weary sleep,
will I not be the prey of wild animals?”
Though this debate gave him no peace,
he rose and looked for a stand of trees,
creeping under twin adjacent bushes
that sprang from the root: both olives,
one wild, the other domesticated—
providing a thicket of warmth
against chaffing winds or the sun’s noon blaze;
even a rain shower would not drench him,
so dense were the leaves intertwined.
Here Odysseus scraped out a trough,
then set about raking a huge pile of leaves,
enough leaves to cover two or three men
and preserve them during a winter night.
His weary heart lifted in laughter
as he eyed the immense leaf-bed
and he lay down with confidence,
heaping dry leaves over his wet body.
Just as a shepherd with no roof nearby
lies down in some distant field,
burying a burning brand in a bed of embers
to keep alive a seed-spark for the morning fire,
Odysseus hid himself in the dead leaves
as sleep stole over his exhausted frame
and Athena smiled down on him from above,
hiding her presence in his dreams.
Odyssey, Book Three: The Outcast
Thus, the sea-wracked body of Odysseus slept in a thicket
as Athena’s spirit swept over the city of the Phaiakians
who once inhabited the fabled realm of Hyperia
before the lawless Cypclops who lived nearby
drove them out with giant stones.
King Nausithous packed his people in ships
and settled them here in remote Scheria,
far from the lands of other warring tribes.
Surrounding the city with a great stone wall,
he built solid houses and spacious temples
before old age brought him to the house of Hades.
King Alcinous, wise with godly wisdom,
now guided the prosperous citizens of Scheria
where Athena descended in the light-blue hue before dawn,
entering the King’s household through the iron-bolted doors,
hovering above the hewn-oak two-poster bed
on which lay slumbering Nausicaa,
the king’s only daughter, nearly as beautiful as Athena.
Beside her bed two young maids slept on pallets.
With the first breath of dawn, Athena
conjured in Nausica’s mind the shadow of Dymas,
her frequent sailing companion for many years,
a girl of her age whose humor delighted her.
In this pleasant dream, Athena had Dymas say:
“What would your mother think, Nausica,
if she saw these piles of undone laundry
strewn about the corners of your room?
Is not the day of your wedding drawing near?
Should you not take pride in your appearance?
And should not your maids be working?
Cleanliness enhances any reputation,
brings pleasure to your mother and father.
When Dawn spills through your shutters,
let’s go together and wash our clothes.
The most desirable men are lining up to court you
and you must look your best when you choose
the Phaiakian most suited to your heart.
Ask your generous father in the early morning
to harness his mules to a wagon and pile in
all your tunics, cloaks, and bedding.
Why should you travel on foot to the river
that lies beyond three hills?”
So whispered Athena into Nausica’s ear
before she ascended to Mount Olympus
where the stronghold of the gods endure,
not shaken by time or tempests,
nor do snowdrifts accumulate there.
The brisk, rarified air invigorates the gods
while sunlight infuses the air with health.
There the gods take their eternal pleasures
and Athena took her presence among them.
When Dawn lit up her brocaded coverlets,
Naussica rose promptly, musing about her dream.
She went to the far end of the house
to tell her mother about the vivid dream,
finding her smiling mother by the fireplace
spinning purple yarn with her maids.
She caught her distracted father leaving the house
to attend a city council meeting,
called by the elders of the city.
Stopping him in the archway, she said:
“Will you not harness the big wagon for me?
The one with the enormous bronze wheels?
I have a tremendous heap of laundry
and I’d like to wash the whole family’s clothes.
You yourself always need extra clean tunics for work
and three of my five brothers who are still unmarried
don’t wash their clothes as often as they should.
I think it’s only right for me to pitch-in and do it all
for the whole family, at least once in a while.”
She spoke firmly but was too embarrassed to say a word
about her wedding prospects before her father,
but he understood the real reason for this request.
“The mules are yours,” he said happily,
“and whatever else your want for the outing.
My men will take care of it. Off with you.”
He gave orders for these things to be done
and she got the big wagon she wanted.
The mules were yoked and harnessed.
She brought out great bundles of laundry
to the courtyard, loading the wagon high.
Her mother prepared a basket of food
with cheeses, bread, and many ripe fruits,
pouring some wine into a stout goatskin.
She handed her a glass flask of clear olive oil
for anointing, both for her and her young maids.
Nausicaa climbed the wagon, took the whip,
and cracked it in the cool air. The mules brayed,
pulling with ease the full-loaded wagon,
as her maids walked beside the great turning wheels.
Reaching the riverbank, they halted
at the customary washing spot that offered
a pleasant pool and current for the task.
They unyoked the mules to graze in a field.
Hauling out the clothes and dunking them,
they competed energetically with one another
in cleaning the fabric quickly, then spread out
the clothes along the sandy bank to dry,
draping tunics over great stone boulders.
They bathed in the cold stream, anointing themselves
with fresh olive oil, sat, and ate on the sandy banks,
as they waited for the warm sun to dry all.
After eating and drinking, they discarded their veils
and began to toss a large many-colored ball about,
dancing with the ball when one caught it,
showing off their girlish figures and miming jokes.
Nausicaa’s white arms excelling in these comic pranks.
Just as the huntress Artemis ranges over the mountains
of Taygetus or Erymanthus hunting boar or deer,
and the wood nymphs sport along with her playfully
while her mother Leto admires her daughter’s grace
of stride and the tallness of her athletic figure,
the virgin Nausicaa stood out amid her laughing maids.
Though she knew that they should soon stop play
and begin to fold up the now-dry laundry,
Athena inspired her to an excess of clowning,
so that Odysseus might see the full extent of her beauty
and win her as a guide into the bustling city.
Nausicaa threw the ball wide and a breeze carried it
far out into the river’s swirling current,
at which they all gave an involuntary shout,
waking Odysseus from a sleep like death.
“Are these savages yelling?” was his first thought.
“Or could they be civilized people, after all?
They sound most like young girls. Perhaps they are nymphs
haunting these woods that I know nothing of,
delighting in the peaks, streams, and fields around me.
Have I found people I could possibly speak to?
I’d better get up quickly and take a look!”
He pushed aside the brown leaves, breaking
a branch of the olive tree to shield his groin
and rushed out like a mountain lion from a copse,
seaweed dangling from his hair, shreds of leaves
matted on his nose and cheeks and chest, eyes burning
with the wild desperation only lonely hunters know
or the determination of a lion tracking doe or gazelle—
and if famished will even break into a homestead
to ravage a sheep or ox when the owners are at home—
thus, Odysseus appeared to these young, innocent girls,
naked and desperate as he was to survive any ordeal!
Clotted with dirt and scabby cuts, he threw the girls into terror,
and they fled up the banks finding refuge in the great wagon,
but Nausicaa stood alone, firm on the pebbled banks,
naked and bold with a steady heart and sturdy legs
for Athena had filled her with courage unflinching.
.
She looked him in the eye and waited for him.
Odysseus debated what he should do.
Embrace her knees in supplication?
Beg her for some clothes to cover his nakedness?
He thought it best to supplicate her from a distance,
lest she misinterpret his grasping of her knees.
He spoke to her as best he knew how.
“I am already at your knees. Are you a goddess or mortal?
If you are a goddess who strides the clouds, then you
most resemble the huntress Artemis, daughter of Zeus,
both for beauty and extraordinary presence.
If you are of human stock, then thrice blest are your parents,
and all of your extended kin. I can glean their happiness
when they see you on a feast day dancing before Athena.
Yet one man must eventually be blest above all others—
he who loads your arms with wedding gifts
and takes you across the threshold of his ancestors.
Never have I seen such beauty in man or woman.
Wonder shakes my knees as I look upon you!
Once in Delos when I had ships and men under my command,
I saw something like your beauty in a young palm tree
that had never grown on the island before—
shooting up a slim blade in a fresh stalk under a slanting sun,
but that journey ended for me in much suffering and hardship.
I cannot touch your knees, yet I am desperate!
I have spent twenty days trolling the wine-dark sea,
tossed by storm waves, buffeted by gales,
sailing alone from distant Ogygia
where fate has shipwrecked me upon this shore
and I am bound to suffer more trials.
I need to believe in hope before the gods batter me again!
Have pity on me and do me a kindness!
Give me a rag to cover my nakedness, any covering will do.
Direct me to the nearest town
where I may sit in the square and beg.
May the gods bless all your most secret wishes:
a home, a husband, and a good relationship with each other,
so that you may both live in harmony and pleasant conversation—
for nothing else in this life can compare to that pleasure,
even though it might strike a chord of jealousy in some,
yet a harmonious household remains a boon to friends
and gives such a couple an illustrious reputation.”
To the bedraggled stranger Nausicaa replied:
“All joy and hardship comes from Zeus the Olympian
who gives to each their fate in this difficult life,
but you seem to me neither crazy nor evil,
and if your fortune has been very terrible,
you must bear your burdens as best you can.
Since you find yourself stranded in our kingdom,
you shall not lack the clothing you need
or anything else any supplicant would receive.
I shall show you our city, tell you where you are.
We call ourselves the Far-Island-Acheans here,
and I am the daughter of noble Alcinous,
the most powerful man in our great city.
Then she called to her cowering maids: “Stand fast, girls,
Can you not see a man without running in fear?
He is neither a murderer nor thief,
nor can anyone on this island do us any harm,
for we are blessed by the gods and surrounding sea,
safe from the wars that trouble other tribes.
Stranded strangers are under the protection of Zeus
and are grateful for any help they receive.
Give this man some food and drink,
bathe him in the river at some suitable spot.
At this the maids began to speak encouragingly to each other
and then led Odysseus down to a sheltered pool
as Nausicaa of the gleaming white arms directed them to do,
laying out a tunic and mantle for him,
giving him the golden flask of olive oil,
telling him to wash himself in that pool.
Odysseus spoke to the maids in this way:
“Young women, please stand away
while I wash the filth and salt from my body
and then anoint myself with this oil.
It’s been a long time since I’ve had oil.
I cannot wash properly if you stand there—
I’m ashamed to be naked before such good-looking women.”
They walked off to tell Nausicaa what he said
while Odysseus scrubbed his chest and broad shoulders.
When he had thoroughly washed himself,
removing all salt from his matted hair,
he anointed himself with the clear oil
and donned the clothes he had been given.
His hair now ringed from his head
like sprinkled blossoms of hyacinth
and he looked much taller than before.
Athena shed beauty on his figure
like a sculptor inspired by Hephaestus
or a craftsman gilding a statue
for a public celebration in a city square.
Odysseus walked up the beach a little way
and sat down upon a broad flat boulder.
Nausica watched him with admiration, saying:
“I’ve got something I want to say.
I believe the gods themselves have sent this man here.
When my eyes first fell upon him, I thought him an ordinary man,
but now he has a near-godly appearance.
I should like my future husband to look, speak like him.
If only he would stay here and live among us!
For the moment, give him some food and drink.”
So they brought food and drink to Odysseus,
which he ate eagerly—it had been days
since he had tasted the pleasure of food.
Nausica contemplated what to do next.
With her maids, she folded the laundry,
stacking it neatly in red wagon.
Then she recovered the mules,
yoking and harnessing them to the wagon.
As she sat in the wagon, she called out to Odysseus:
“Sir, rise up, for we are leaving for the city
I will take you to my father’s house
where I’m sure you will be received with hospitality
and come to meet the best citizens of the city.
Or if you think it more prudent
to follow our wagon from a distance,
walk briskly behind as we pass the fields
where the laborers work the harvest.
I will point the way myself
when we come to the city walls.
There’s a good harbor on each side of the city,
but the city gate is narrow.
On each side there are many docks,
for each citizen has his own berth for his vessel.
You will see the bustling market
with the great temple of Poseidon in the middle,
built with granite quarried from the hills.
In the market vendors deal with all manner of gear
relating to ship masts, sails, pulleys, rope, the repair of ships.
Artisans will take your special order
and plane various oars in plain sight of everyone.
The Phaiakians are not a people of the bow,
but a seafaring tribe who pride themselves
not on weapons, but on peaceful commerce,
trading with many kinds of people from far away,
taking pleasure in sailing great distances,
yet I don’t take pleasure in the talk of sailors
who often speak with such blunt coarseness,
sometimes even insulting insolence,
whispering things when they see people, like:
‘Who is this foreigner with that beauty Nausicaa?
Is he some alien suitor out to grab her father’s gold?
Or is he some stray dog she has picked up on the strand?
Or are our bachelors not good enough for her
and has some god answered her prayers to become her slave?
Perhaps it’s better if she finds some stranger,
for the snot thinks she’s above all her neighbors—
there’s not a man alive in the city good enough for her!’
They will speak like that and create a scandal
and even I would disapprove of a girl
who acted behind the back of her father,
making a liaison with a man before she was married.
So if you want a chance to return home at all,
listen, stranger, to what I have to say,
if you want the protection of my father
who has the means to escort you home.
Outside the city walls near a bubbling spring,
you will see a pristine grove of poplars
sacred to the great goddess Athena,
surrounded by a meadow and fruitful orchard—
that is my father’s estate and near where my house is—
it’s about a loud shout from the city walls.
Sit down in that grove while we go on,
but when you think we have entered the house,
then go to the city gate and enquire from the guards
where the house of my father, Alcinous, is.
The house is easy to find, any child could take you there,
for the unique structure of the house is famous in the city.
After entering the archway to the courtyard,
go straight across to the big hall where my mother
will be sitting by the light of the hearth fire,
spinning purple thread at an amazingly large loom
set up against a huge house-pillar beam of poplar.
Her maids will be helping her spin,
and my father’s great chair is there
where he drinks his wine and watches the fire.
Don’t supplicate him, but go to my mother
and embrace her knees with sincerity—
if you do this convincingly you may yet see
the day of your joyful homecoming.
For if my mother has a good opinion of you,
then you may hope to see your native country,
your family and friends and the fields
that your ancestors have plowed,
no matter how far away these are.”
Saying this, she lashed the mules
and the wagon sped to their canter
as they left the bank of the river.
The large hooves of the mules thundered
and splashed through puddles,
yet she drove them on quite carefully
so that the maids and Odysseus
would not be left too far behind.
At sunset, they reached Athena’s grove
and here Odysseus sat down to pray, saying:
“Hear me, daughter of sceptered Zeus,
listen to me now since you ignored my piteous plea
to be delivered from the wrath of Poseidon
when he rattled and smashed my boat at sea.
Grant me the grace to come as one pitied
among these prosperous Phaiakians,
so that I may yet see the embrace of my family.”
Pallas Athena heard his prayer but gave no hint
that she listened to his desperate plea
because she feared annoying her uncle, Poseidon,
who still nursed a deep anger against Odysseus.