there he lay, with only a little strength left in him,
deathly waves of exhaustion overwhelmed him now . . .
But once he regained his breath and rallied back to life,
at last he loosed the goddess’ scarf from his body,
dropped it into the river flowing out to sea
510 and a swift current bore it far downstream
and suddenly Ino caught it in her hands.
Struggling up from the banks, he flung himself
in the deep reeds, he kissed the good green earth
and addressed his fighting spirit, desperate still:
“Man of misery, what next? Is this the end?
If I wait out a long tense night by the banks,
I fear the sharp frost and the soaking dew together
will do me in —I’m bone-weary, about to breathe my last,
and a cold wind blows from a river on toward morning.
520 But what if I climb that slope, go for the dark woods
and bed down in the thick brush? What if I’m spared
the chill, fatigue, and a sweet sleep comes my way?
I fear wild beasts will drag me off as quarry.”
But this was the better course, it struck him now.
He set out for the woods and not far from the water
found a grove with a clearing all around and crawled
beneath two bushy olives sprung from the same root,
one olive wild, the other well-bred stock.
No sodden gusty winds could ever pierce them,
530 nor could the sun’s sharp rays invade their depths,
nor could a downpour drench them through and through,
so dense they grew together, tangling side-by-side.
Odysseus crept beneath them, scraping up at once
a good wide bed for himself with both hands.
A fine litter of dead leaves had drifted in,
enough to cover two men over, even three,
in the wildest kind of winter known to man.
Long-enduring great Odysseus, overjoyed at the sight,
bedded down in the midst and heaped the leaves around him.
540 As a man will bury his glowing brand in black ashes,
off on a lonely farmstead, no neighbors near,
to keep a spark alive —no need to kindle fire
from somewhere else —so great Odysseus buried
himself in leaves and Athena showered sleep
upon his eyes . . . sleep in a swift wave
delivering him from all his pains and labors,
blessed sleep that sealed his eyes at last.
BOOK SIX
The Princess and the Stranger
So there he lay at rest, the storm-tossed great Odysseus,
borne down by his hard labors first and now deep sleep
as Athena traveled through the countryside
and reached the Phaeacians’ city. Years ago
they lived in a land of spacious dancing-circles,
6 Hyperia, all too close to the overbearing Cyclops,
stronger, violent brutes who harried them without end.
8 So their godlike king, Nausithous, led the people off
in a vast migration, settled them in Scheria,
10 far from the men who toil on this earth —
he flung up walls around the city, built the houses,
raised the gods’ temples and shared the land for plowing.
But his fate had long since forced him down to Death
14 and now Alcinous ruled, and the gods made him wise.
Straight to his house the clear-eyed Pallas went,
full of plans for great Odysseus’ journey home.
She made her way to the gaily painted room
where a young girl lay asleep . . .
a match for the deathless gods in build and beauty,
20 Nausicaa, the daughter of generous King Alcinous.
21 Two handmaids fair as the Graces slept beside her,
flanking the two posts, with the gleaming doors closed.
But the goddess drifted through like a breath of fresh air,
rushed to the girl’s bed and hovering close she spoke,
25 in face and form like the shipman Dymas’ daughter,
a girl the princess’ age, and dearest to her heart.
Disguised, the bright-eyed goddess chided, “Nausicaa,
how could your mother bear a careless girl like you?
Look at your fine clothes, lying here neglected —
30 with your marriage not far off,
the day you should be decked in all your glory
and offer elegant dress to those who form your escort.
That’s how a bride’s good name goes out across the world
and it brings her father and queenly mother joy. Come,
let’s go wash these clothes at the break of day —
I’ll help you, lend a hand, and the work will fly!
You won’t stay unwed long. The noblest men
in the country court you now, all Phaeacians
just like you, Phaeacia-born and raised. So come,
40 the first thing in the morning press your kingly father
to harness the mules and wagon for you, all to carry
your sashes, dresses, glossy spreads for your bed.
It’s so much nicer for you to ride than go on foot.
The washing-pools are just too far from town.”
With that
the bright-eyed goddess sped away to Olympus, where,
46 they say, the gods’ eternal mansion stands unmoved,
never rocked by galewinds, never drenched by rains,
nor do the drifting snows assail it, no, the clear air
stretches away without a cloud, and a great radiance
50 plays across that world where the blithe gods
live all their days in bliss. There Athena went,
once the bright-eyed one had urged the princess on.
Dawn soon rose on her splendid throne and woke
Nausicaa finely gowned. Still beguiled by her dream,
down she went through the house to tell her parents now,
her beloved father and mother. She found them both inside.
Her mother sat at the hearth with several waiting-women,
spinning yarn on a spindle, lustrous sea-blue wool.
Her father she met as he left to join the lords
60 at a council island nobles asked him to attend.
She stepped up close to him, confiding, “Daddy dear,
I wonder, won’t you have them harness a wagon for me,
the tall one with the good smooth wheels . . . so I
can take our clothes to the river for a washing?
Lovely things, but lying before me all soiled.
And you yourself, sitting among the princes,
debating points at your council,
you really should be wearing spotless linen.
Then you have five sons, full-grown in the palace,
70 two of them married, but three are lusty bachelors
always demanding crisp shirts fresh from the wash
when they go out to dance. Look at my duties —
that all rests on me.”
So she coaxed, too shy
to touch on her hopes for marriage, young warm hopes,
in her father’s presence. But he saw through it all
and answered quickly, “I won’t deny you the mules,
my darling girl . . . I won’t deny you anything.
Off you go, and the men will harness a wagon,
the tall one with the good smooth wheels,
fitted out with a cradle on the top.”
80 With that
he called to the stablemen and they complied.
They trundled the wagon out now, rolling smoothly,
backed the mule-team into the traces, hitched them up,
84 while the princess brough
t her finery from the room
and piled it into the wagon’s polished cradle.
Her mother packed a hamper —treats of all kinds,
favorite things to refresh her daughter’s spirits —
poured wine in a skin, and as Nausicaa climbed aboard,
the queen gave her a golden flask of suppling olive oil
90 for her and her maids to smooth on after bathing.
Then, taking the whip in hand and glistening reins,
she touched the mules to a start and out they clattered,
trotting on at a clip, bearing the princess and her clothes
and not alone: her maids went with her, stepping briskly too.
Once they reached the banks of the river flowing strong
where the pools would never fail, with plenty of water
cool and clear, bubbling up and rushing through
to scour the darkest stains —they loosed the mules,
out from under the wagon yoke, and chased them down
100 the river’s rippling banks to graze on luscious clover.
Down from the cradle they lifted clothes by the armload,
plunged them into the dark pools and stamped them down
in the hollows, one girl racing the next to finish first
until they’d scoured and rinsed off all the grime,
then they spread them out in a line along the beach
where the surf had washed a pebbly scree ashore.
And once they’d bathed and smoothed their skin with oil,
they took their picnic, sitting along the river’s banks
and waiting for all the clothes to dry in the hot noon sun.
110 Now fed to their hearts’ content, the princess and her retinue
threw their veils to the wind, struck up a game of ball.
White-armed Nausicaa led their singing, dancing beat . . .
as lithe as Artemis with her arrows striding down
114 from a high peak —Taygetus’ towering ridge or Erymanthus —
thrilled to race with the wild boar or bounding deer,
and nymphs of the hills race with her,
daughters of Zeus whose shield is storm and thunder,
118 ranging the hills in sport, and Leto’s heart exults
as head and shoulders over the rest her daughter rises,
120 unmistakable —she outshines them all, though all are lovely.
So Nausicaa shone among her maids, a virgin, still unwed.
But now, as she was about to fold her clothes
and yoke the mules and turn for home again,
now clear-eyed Pallas thought of what came next,
to make Odysseus wake and see this young beauty
and she would lead him to the Phaeacians’ town.
The ball —
the princess suddenly tossed it to a maid
but it missed the girl, it splashed in a deep swirling pool
and they all shouted out —
and that woke great Odysseus.
130 He sat up with a start, puzzling, his heart pounding:
“Man of misery, whose land have I lit on now?
What are they here —violent, savage, lawless?
or friendly to strangers, god-fearing men?
Listen: shouting, echoing round me —women, girls —
or the nymphs who haunt the rugged mountaintops
and the river springs and meadows lush with grass!
Or am I really close to people who speak my language?
Up with you, see how the land lies, see for yourself now . . .”
Muttering so, great Odysseus crept out of the bushes,
140 stripping off with his massive hand a leafy branch
from the tangled olive growth to shield his body,
hide his private parts. And out he stalked
as a mountain lion exultant in his power
strides through wind and rain and his eyes blaze
and he charges sheep or oxen or chases wild deer
but his hunger drives him on to go for flocks,
even to raid the best-defended homestead.
So Odysseus moved out . . .
about to mingle with all those lovely girls,
150 naked now as he was, for the need drove him on,
a terrible sight, all crusted, caked with brine —
they scattered in panic down the jutting beaches.
Only Alcinous’ daughter held fast, for Athena planted
courage within her heart, dissolved the trembling in her limbs,
and she firmly stood her ground and faced Odysseus, torn now —
156 Should he fling his arms around her knees, the young beauty,
plead for help, or stand back, plead with a winning word,
beg her to lead him to the town and lend him clothing?
This was the better way, he thought. Plead now
160 with a subtle, winning word and stand well back,
don’t clasp her knees, the girl might bridle, yes.
He launched in at once, endearing, sly and suave:
“Here I am at your mercy, princess —
are you a goddess or a mortal? If one of the gods
who rule the skies up there, you’re Artemis to the life,
the daughter of mighty Zeus —I see her now —just look
at your build, your bearing, your lithe flowing grace . . .
But if you’re one of the mortals living here on earth,
three times blest are your father, your queenly mother,
170 three times over your brothers too. How often their hearts
must warm with joy to see you striding into the dances —
such a bloom of beauty. True, but he is the one
more blest than all other men alive, that man
who sways you with gifts and leads you home, his bride!
I have never laid eyes on anyone like you,
neither man nor woman . . .
I look at you and a sense of wonder takes me.
Wait,
178 once I saw the like —in Delos, beside Apollo’s altar —
the young slip of a palm-tree springing into the light.
180 There I’d sailed, you see, with a great army in my wake,
out on the long campaign that doomed my life to hardship.
That vision! Just as I stood there gazing, rapt, for hours . . .
no shaft like that had ever risen up from the earth —
so now I marvel at you, my lady: rapt, enthralled,
too struck with awe to grasp you by the knees
though pain has ground me down.
Only yesterday,
the twentieth day, did I escape the wine-dark sea.
Till then the waves and the rushing gales had swept me on
from the island of Ogygia. Now some power has tossed me here,
190 doubtless to suffer still more torments on your shores.
I can’t believe they’ll stop. Long before that
the gods will give me more, still more.
Compassion —
princess, please! You, after all that I have suffered,
you are the first I’ve come to. I know no one else,
none in your city, no one in your land.
Show me the way to town, give me a rag for cover,
just some cloth, some wrapper you carried with you here.
And may the good gods give you all your heart desires:
husband, and house, and lasting harmony too.
200 No finer, greater gift in the world than that . . .
when man and woman possess their home, two minds,
two hearts that work as one. Despair to their enemies,
a joy to all their friends. Their own best claim to glory.”
“Stranger,” the white-armed princess answered staunchly,
“friend, you’re hardly a wicked man, and no fool, I’d say —
it’s Olympian Zeus himself who hands our fortunes out,
to each of us in turn, to the good and bad,
however Zeus prefers . . .
He gave you pain, it seems. You simply have to bear it.
210 But now, seeing you’ve reached our city and our land,
you’ll never lack for clothing or any other gift,
the right of worn-out suppliants come our way.
I’ll show you our town, tell you our people’s name.
Phaeacians we are, who hold this city and this land,
and I am the daughter of generous King Alcinous.
All our people’s power stems from him.”
She called out to her girls with lovely braids:
“Stop, my friends! Why run when you see a man?
Surely you don’t think him an enemy, do you?
220 There’s no one alive, there never will be one,
who’d reach Phaeacian soil and lay it waste.
The immortals love us far too much for that.
We live too far apart, out in the surging sea,
off at the world’s end —
no other mortals come to mingle with us.
But here’s an unlucky wanderer strayed our way
and we must tend him well. Every stranger and beggar
comes from Zeus, and whatever scrap we give him
he’ll be glad to get. So, quick, my girls,
230 give our newfound friend some food and drink
and bathe the man in the river,
wherever you find some shelter from the wind.”
At that
they came to a halt and teased each other on
and led Odysseus down to a sheltered spot
where he could find a seat,
just as great Alcinous’ daughter told them.
They laid out cloak and shirt for him to wear,
they gave him the golden flask of suppling olive oil
and pressed him to bathe himself in the river’s stream.
240 Then thoughtful Odysseus reassured the handmaids,
“Stand where you are, dear girls, a good way off,
so I can rinse the brine from my shoulders now
and rub myself with oil . . .
how long it’s been since oil touched my skin!
245 But I won’t bathe in front of you. I would be embarrassed —
stark naked before young girls with lovely braids.”
The handmaids scurried off to tell their mistress.
Great Odysseus bathed in the river, scrubbed his body
clean of brine that clung to his back and broad shoulders,
250 scoured away the brackish scurf that caked his head.
And then, once he had bathed all over, rubbed in oil
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