Homer, The Odyssey. Translated by Robert Fagles New York, Viking Penguin, 1996 Copyrighted Material posted for course use only; do not copy or download except for study purposes.   Book Seven Phaeacia's Halls and Gardens
The other of the two surviving paintings showing the meeting of Odysseus and Nausicaa. On this vase, Odysseus stands on rocky ground, holding branches in each hand and facing Athena. On the right, two maidens flee in fright at the naked stranger.	Red-figured amphora. Ca. 440 BCE. Attributed to the Nausicaa Painter. Munich, Staatliche Antikensammlungen, 2322. From Buitron etc. ed., The Odyssey and Ancient Art (Bard College: Edith Blum Institute, 1992), p. 25, fig. 13.

Now as Odysseus, long an exile, prayed in Athena's grove,

the hardy mule team drew the princess toward the city.

Reaching her father's splendid halls, she reined in,

just at the gates--her brothers clustering round her,

men like gods, released the mules from the yoke

and brought the clothes indoors

as Nausicaa made her way toward her bedroom.

There her chambermaid lit a fire for her--

Eurymedusa, the old woman who'd come from Apiraea

years ago, when the rolling ships had sailed her in

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and the country picked her out as King Alcinous' prize,

for he ruled all the Phaeacians, they obeyed him like a god.

Once, she had nursed the white armed princess in the palace.

Now she lit a fire and made her supper in the room.

At the same time, Odysseus set off toward the city.

Pallas Athena, harboring kindness for the hero,

drifted a heavy mist around him, shielding him

from any swaggering islander who'd cross his path,

provoke him with taunts and search out who he was.

Instead, as he was about to enter the welcome city,

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the bright eyed goddess herself came up to greet him there,

for all the world like a young girl, holding a pitcher,

standing face to face with the visitor, who asked,

"Little girl, now wouldn't you be my guide

to the palace of the one they call Alcinous?

The king who rules the people of these parts.

I am a stranger, you see, weighed down with troubles,

come this way from a distant, far off shore.

So I know no one here, none at all

in your city and the farmlands round about."

"Oh yes, sir,

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good old stranger," the bright eyed goddess said,

"I'll show you the very palace that you're after--

the king lives right beside my noble father.

Come, quietly too, and I will lead the way.

Now not a glance at anyone, not a question.

The men here never suffer strangers gladly,

have no love for hosting a man from foreign lands.

All they really trust are their fast, flying ships

that cross the mighty ocean. Gifts of Poseidon,

ah what ships they are-;

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quick as a bird, quick as a darting thought!"

And Pallas Athena sped away in the lead

as he followed in her footsteps, man and goddess.

But the famed Phaeacian sailors never saw him,

right in their midst, striding down their streets.

Athena the one with lovely braids would not permit it,

the awesome goddess poured an enchanted mist around him,

harboring kindness for Odysseus in her heart.

And he marveled now at the balanced ships and havens,

the meeting grounds of the great lords and the long ramparts

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looming, coped and crowned with palisades of stakes--

an amazing sight to see . . .

And once they reached the king's resplendent halls

the bright eyed goddess cried out, "Good old stranger,

here, here is the very palace that you're after--

I've pointed you all the way. Here you'll find

our princes dear to the gods, busy feasting.

You go on inside. Be bold, nothing to fear.

In every venture the bold man comes off best,

even the wanderer, bound from distant shores.

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The queen is the first you'll light on in the halls.

Arete, she is called, and earns the name:

she answers all our prayers. She comes, in fact,

from the same stock that bred our King Alcinous.

First came Nausithous, son of the earthquake god

Poseidon and Periboea, the lovely, matchless beauty,

the youngest daughter of iron willed Eurymedon,

king of the overweening Giants years ago.

He led that reckless clan to its own ruin,

killed himself in the bargain, but the Sea lord

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lay in love with Periboea and she produced a son,

Nausithous, that lionheart who ruled Phaeacia well.

Now, Nausithous had two sons, Rhexenor and Alcinous,

but the lord of the silver bow, Apollo, shot Rhexenor down--

married, true, yet still without a son in the halls,

he left one child behind, a daughter named Arete.

Alcinous made the girl his wife and honors her

as no woman is honored on this earth, of all the wives

now keeping households under their husbands' sway.

Such is her pride of place, and always will be so:

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dear to her loving children, to Alcinous himself

and all our people. They gaze on her as a god,

saluting her warmly on her walks through town.

She lacks nothing in good sense and judgment--

she can dissolve quarrels, even among men,

whoever wins her sympathies.

If only our queen will take you to her heart,

then there's hope that you will see your loved ones,

reach your high roofed house, your native land at last."

And with that vow the bright eyed goddess sped away,

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over the barren sea, leaving welcome Scheria far behind,

and reaching Marathon and the spacious streets of Athens,

entered Erechtheus' sturdy halls, Athena's stronghold.

Now as Odysseus approached Alcinous' famous house

a rush of feelings stirred within his heart,

bringing him to a standstill,

even before he crossed the bronze threshold . . .

A radiance strong as the moon or rising sun came flooding

through the high roofed halls of generous King Alcinous.

Walls plated in bronze, crowned with a circling frieze

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glazed as blue as lapis, ran to left and right

from outer gates to the deepest court recess.

Solid golden doors enclosed the palace.

Up from the bronze threshold silver doorposts rose

with silver lintel above, and golden handle hooks.

And dogs of gold and silver were stationed either side,

forged by the god of fire with all his cunning craft

to keep watch on generous King Alcinous' palace now,

his immortal guard dogs, ageless, all their days.

Inside to left and right, in a long unbroken row

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from farthest outer gate to the inmost chamber,

thrones stood backed against the wall, each draped

with a finely spun brocade, women's handsome work.

Here the Phaeacian lords would sit enthroned,

dining, drinking--the feast flowed on forever.

And young boys, molded of gold, set on pedestals

standing firm, were lifting torches high in their hands

to flare through the nights and light the feasters down the hall.

And Alcinous has some fifty serving women in his house:

some, turning the handmill, grind the apple yellow grain,

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some weave at their webs or sit and spin their yarn,

fingers flickering quick as aspen leaves in the wind

and the densely woven woolens dripping oil droplets.

Just as Phaeacian men excel the world at sailing,

driving their swift ships on the open seas,

so the women excel at all the arts of weaving.

That is Athena's gift to them beyond all others-;

a genius for lovely work, and a fine mind too.

Outside the courtyard, fronting the high gates,

a magnificent orchard stretches four acres deep

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with a strong fence running round it side to side.

Here luxuriant trees are always in their prime,

pomegranates and pears, and apples glowing red,

succulent figs and olives swelling sleek and dark.

And the yield of all these trees will never flag or die,

neither in winter nor in summer, a harvest all year round

for the West Wind always breathing through will bring

some fruits to the bud and others warm to ripeness-;

pear mellowing ripe on pear, apple on apple,

cluster of grapes on cluster, fig crowding fig.

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And here is a teeming vineyard planted for the kings,

beyond it an open level bank where the vintage grapes

lie baking to raisins in the sun while pickers gather others;

some they trample down in vats, and here in the front rows

bunches of unripe grapes have hardly shed their blooms

while others under the sunlight slowly darken purple.

And there by the last rows are beds of greens,

bordered and plotted, greens of every kind,

glistening fresh, year in, year out. And last,

there are two springs, one rippling in channels

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over the whole orchard--the other, flanking it,

rushes under the palace gates

to bubble up in front of the lofty roofs

where the city people come and draw their water.

Such

the gifts, the glories showered down by the gods

on King Alcinous' realm.

And there Odysseus stood,

gazing at all this bounty, a man who'd borne so much . . .

Once he'd had his fill of marveling at it all,

he crossed the threshold quickly,

strode inside the palace. Here he found

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the Phaeacian lords and captains tipping out

libations now to the guide and giant killer Hermes,

the god to whom they would always pour the final cup

before they sought their beds. Odysseus went on

striding down the hall, the man of many struggles

shrouded still in the mist Athena drifted round him,

till he reached Arete and Alcinous the king. And then,

the moment he flung his arms around Arete's knees,

the godsent mist rolled back to reveal the great man.

And silence seized the feasters all along the hall--

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seeing him right before their eyes, they marveled,

gazing on him now as Odysseus pleaded, "Queen,

Arete, daughter of godlike King Rhexenor!

Here after many trials I come to beg for mercy,

your husband's, yours, and all these feasters' here.

May the gods endow them with fortune all their lives,

may each hand down to his sons the riches in his house

and the pride of place the realm has granted him.

But as for myself, grant me a rapid convoy home

to my own native land. How far away I've been

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from all my loved ones-;how long I have suffered!"

Pleading so, the man sank down in the ashes,

just at the hearth beside the blazing fire,

while all the rest stayed hushed, stock still.

At last the old revered Echeneus broke the spell,

the eldest lord in Phaeacia, finest speaker too,

a past master at all the island's ancient ways.

Impelled by kindness now, he rose and said,

"This is no way, Alcinous. How indecent, look,

our guest on the ground, in the ashes by the fire!

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Your people are holding back, waiting for your signal.

Come, raise him up and seat the stranger now,

in a silver studded chair,

and tell the heralds to mix more wine for all

so we can pour out cups to Zeus who loves the lightning,

champion of suppliants--suppliants' rights are sacred.

And let the housekeeper give our guest his supper,

unstinting with her stores."

Hearing that,

Alcinous, poised in all his majesty, took the hand

of the seasoned, worldly wise Odysseus, raised him up

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from the hearth and sat him down in a burnished chair,

displacing his own son, the courtly Lord Laodamas

who had sat beside him, the son he loved the most.

A maid brought water soon in a graceful golden pitcher

and over a silver basin tipped it out

so the guest might rinse his hands,

then pulled a gleaming table to his side.

A staid housekeeper brought on bread to serve him,

appetizers aplenty too, lavish with her bounty.

As long suffering great Odysseus ate and drank,

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the hallowed King Alcinous called his herald:

"Come, Pontonous! Mix the wine in the bowl,

pour rounds to all our banqueters in the house

so we can pour out cups to Zeus who loves the lightning,

champion of suppliants--suppliants' rights are sacred."

At that Pontonous mixed the heady, honeyed wine

and tipped first drops for the god in every cup,

then poured full rounds for all. And once they'd poured

libations out and drunk to their hearts' content,

Alcinous rose and addressed his island people:

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"Hear me, lords and captains of Phaeacia,

hear what the heart inside me has to say.

Now, our feast finished, home you go to sleep.

But at dawn we call the elders in to full assembly,

host our guest in the palace, sacrifice to the gods

and then we turn our minds to his passage home,

so under our convoy our new friend can travel back

to his own land--no toil, no troubles--soon,

rejoicing, even if his home's a world away.

And on the way no pain or hardship suffered,

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not till he sets foot on native ground again.

There in the future he must suffer all that Fate

and the overbearing Spinners spun out on his life line

the very day his mother gave him birth . . . But if

he's one of the deathless powers, out of the blue,

the gods are working now in strange, new ways.

Always, up to now, they came to us face to face

whenever we'd give them grand, glorious sacrifices--

they always sat beside us here and shared our feasts.

Even when some lonely traveler meets them on the roads,

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they never disguise themselves. We're too close kin for that,

close as the wild Giants are, the Cyclops too."

"Alcinous!"

wary Odysseus countered, "cross that thought from your mind.

I'm nothing like the immortal gods who rule the skies,

either in build or breeding. I'm just a mortal man.

Whom do you know most saddled down with sorrow?

They are the ones I'd equal, grief for grief.

And I could tell a tale of still more hardship,

all I've suffered, thanks to the gods' will.

But despite my misery, let me finish dinner.

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The belly's a shameless dog, there's nothing worse.

Always insisting, pressing, it never lets us forget--

destroyed as I am, my heart racked with sadness,

sick with anguish, still it keeps demanding,

'Eat, drink!' It blots out all the memory

of my pain, commanding, 'Fill me up!'

But you,

at the first light of day, hurry, please,

to set your unlucky guest on his own home soil.

How much I have suffered . . . Oh just let me see

my lands, my serving men and the grand high roofed house--

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then I can die in peace."

All burst into applause,

urging passage home for their newfound friend,

his pleading rang so true. And once they'd poured

libations out and drunk to their hearts' content,

each one made his way to rest in his own house.

But King Odysseus still remained at hall,

seated beside the royal Alcinous and Arete

as servants cleared the cups and plates away.

The white armed Queen Arete took the lead; ~

she'd spotted the cape and shirt Odysseus wore,

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fine clothes she'd made herself with all her women,

so now her words flew brusquely, sharply: Stranger,

I'll be the first to question you--myself.

Who are you? Where are you from?

Who gave you the clothes you're wearing now?

Didn't you say you reached us roving on the sea?"

"What hard labor, queen," the man of craft replied,

"to tell you the story of my troubles start to finish.

The gods on high have given me my share. Still,

this much I will tell you . . .

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seeing you probe and press me so intently.

There is an island, Ogygia, lying far at sea,

where the daughter of Atlas, Calypso, has her home,

the seductive nymph with lovely braids--a danger too,

and no one, god or mortal, dares approach her there. But I,

cursed as I am, some power brought me to her hearth,

alone, when Zeus with a white hot bolt had crushed

my racing warship down the wine dark sea.

There all the rest of my loyal shipmates died

but I, locking my arms around my good ship's keel,

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drifted along nine days. On the tenth, at dead of night,

the gods cast me up on Ogygia, Calypso's island,

home of the dangerous nymph with glossy braids,

and the goddess took me in in all her kindness,

welcomed me warmly, cherished me, even vowed

to make me immortal, ageless, all my days--

but she never won the heart inside me, never.

Seven endless years I remained there, always drenching

with my tears the immortal clothes Calypso gave me.

Then, at last, when the eighth came wheeling round,

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she insisted that I sail--inspired by warnings sent

from Zeus, perhaps, or her own mind had changed.

She saw me on my way in a solid craft,

tight and trim, and gave me full provisions,

food and mellow wine, immortal clothes to wear

and summoned a wind to bear me onward, fair and warm.

And seventeen days I sailed, making headway well;

on the eighteenth, shadowy mountains slowly loomed . . .

your land! My heart leapt up, unlucky as I am,

doomed to be comrade still to many hardships.

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Many pains the god of earthquakes piled upon me,

loosing the winds against me, blocking passage through,

heaving up a terrific sea, beyond belief--nor did the whitecaps

let me cling to my craft, for all my desperate groaning.

No, the squalls shattered her stem to stern, but I,

I swam hard, I plowed my way through those dark gulfs

till at last the wind and current bore me to your shores.

But here, had I tried to land, the breakers would have hurled me,

smashed me against the jagged cliffs of that grim coast,

so I pulled away, swam back till I reached a river,

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the perfect spot at last, or so it struck me,

free of rocks, with a windbreak from the gales.

So, fighting for life, I flung myself ashore

and the godsent, bracing night came on at once.

Clambering up from the river, big with Zeus's rains,

I bedded down in the brush, my body heaped with leaves,

and a god poured down a boundless sleep upon me, yes,

and there in the leaves, exhausted, sick at heart,

I slept the whole night through

and on to the break of day and on into high noon

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and the sun was wheeling down when sweet sleep set me free.

And I looked up, and there were your daughter's maids

at play on the beach, and she, she moved among them

like a deathless goddess! I begged her for help

and not once did her sense of tact desert her;

she behaved as you'd never hope to find

in one so young, not in a random meeting--

time and again the youngsters prove so flighty.

Not she. She gave me food aplenty and shining wine,

a bath in the river too, and gave me all this clothing.

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That's my whole story. Wrenching to tell, but true."

"Ah, but in one regard, my friend," the king replied,

"her good sense missed the mark, this daughter of mine.

She never escorted you to our house with all her maids

but she was the first you asked for care and shelter."

"Your majesty," diplomatic Odysseus answered,

"don't find fault with a flawless daughter now,

not for my sake, please.

She urged me herself to follow with her maids.

I chose not to, fearing embarrassment in fact--

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what if you took offense, seeing us both together?

Suspicious we are, we men who walk the earth."

"Oh no, my friend," Alcinous stated flatly,

"I'm hardly a man for reckless, idle anger.

Balance is best in all things.

Father Zeus, Athena and lord Apollo! if only--

seeing the man you are, seeing we think as one--

you could wed my daughter and be my son in law

and stay right here with us. I'd give you a house

and great wealth--if you chose to stay, that is.

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No Phaeacian would hold you back by force.

The curse of Father Zeus on such a thing!

And about your convoy home, you rest assured:

I have chosen the day and I decree it is tomorrow.

And all that voyage long you'll lie in a deep sleep

while my people sail you on through calm and gentle tides

till you reach your land and house, or any place you please.

True, even if landfall lies more distant than Euboea,

off at the edge of the world . . .

So say our crews, at least, who saw it once,

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that time they carried the gold haired Rhadamanthys

out to visit Tityus, son of Mother Earth. Imagine,

there they sailed and back they came in the same day,

they finished the homeward run with no strain at all.

You'll see for yourself how far they top the best--

my ships and their young shipmates

tossing up the whitecaps with their oars!"

So he vowed

and the long enduring great Odysseus glowed with joy

and raised a prayer and called the god by name:

"Father Zeus on high--

may the king fulfill his promises one and all!

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Then his fame would ring through the fertile earth

and never die--and I should reach my native land at last!"

And now as the two men exchanged their hopes,

the white armed queen instructed her palace maids

to make a bed in the porch's shelter, lay down

some heavy purple throws for the bed itself,

and over it spread some blankets, thick woolly robes,

a warm covering laid on top. Torches in hand,

they left the hall and fell to work at once,

briskly prepared a good snug resting place

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and then returned to Odysseus, urged the guest,

"Up, friend, time for sleep. Your bed is made."

How welcome the thought of sleep to that man now . . .

So there after many trials Odysseus lay at rest

on a corded bed inside the echoing colonnade.

Alcinous slept in chambers deep in his lofty house

where the queen his wife arranged and shared their bed.

Last updated 29 January 1998