Chapter III: Part 3

In a “far isle amid the sea” Calypso dwelt alone. The blue sky bent over it to embrace the bluer sea; and round its base a spray of foam perpetually laved the rocks with snowy fingers. Out of the sea tree-clad cliffs rose steeply, and the scent of pines hung like incense in the warm air. Deep chasms here and there rent the cliffs apart, and gave access to the sea; but their sides were clothed with olives and trailing vines; and far down below could be heard the whisper of a little stream as it ran to join the murmuring waves on a strip of golden sand. At the head of one of the ravines was Calypso’s cavern.

_Close to the cavern and clustered around it was growing a coppice;
Alder was there and poplar and cypress of delicate perfume.
Many a long-winged bird in the copse found covert at night-time,
Many a falcon and owl, and crook-billed chattering sea-crows,
Birds of the brine which busy themselves with a life on the ocean.
Here too, stretching in front of the hollow mouth of the cavern,
Trailed a luxuriant vine rich-laden with many a cluster.
Four bright runnels of water arose from a neighbouring fountain,
Each one nigh to the other but turned to a different channel.
Spreading around soft meadows with violets blossomed and parsley
Richly bedight—yea e’en an immortal, if haply he came there,
All might wondering view and rejoice in his heart to behold it._[10]

Here it was, then, that Calypso, standing one morning in the sunny entrance to her cave, first saw Odysseus. The prophecy of Circe had been fulfilled. His crew had impiously laid hands on the sacred Oxen of the Sun, and smitten by an avenging storm sent by the wrathful Apollo, had every one paid the penalty with his life. Odysseus only had been spared; and for nine days and nights he had struggled alone with the waves on a shattered raft.

_And on the tenth at night out of the sea
To that Far Island the Gods drifted me,
Calypso’s home, the fair-tressed mortal-voiced
Dread Goddess; and my friend and stay was she._[11]

Calypso rescued and tended the shipwrecked man who was thrown upon her shores; and after his awful peril and hardship he was content to forget everything for a time. Days and weeks and months slipped quickly past and Odysseus remained, charmed by the beauty of the island and the gracious society of Calypso. Sometimes, reclined on the yellow sands where he had been washed ashore, she would listen eagerly to the tales of his wanderings. Sometimes, when the evening breeze blew chill from the sea, they would sit together in the cavern:

_Where from a brazier by her, burning well,
A fire of cloven cedar-wood and pine
Far through the island sent a goodly smell._

_And in it she with voice melodious sang,
While through the warp her golden shuttle rang
As to and fro before the loom she went._[11]

As Calypso sang her strange sweet melodies in the fire-lit gloom, the memory of Ithaca and Penelope grew faint. But one day the spell was broken. Standing on a cliff and looking out to sea, he suddenly remembered home and wife and friends; and from that time onward he did not cease to long and pray for release. But year after year dragged wearily on, and Calypso tried by arts and endearments and promises of deathless gifts, to win him to stay with her. All her persuasion was fruitless, however, and Odysseus

_Sitting far apart
On the sea-beach, as oftentimes before,
Fretted with tears and sighs and bitter smart,_

_Out seaward to the barren ocean-rim
Kept gazing, and his eyes with tears were dim._[11]

Meanwhile, in high assembly of the gods upon Olympus, Athena the loyal friend of Odysseus stood out and pleaded his cause before them all. This austere daughter of great Zeus despised the wiles by which Calypso would keep the hero at her side; and begged her father to release him.

“_But for Odysseus wise I am ill at ease,
That man unhappy who amid the seas
Far from his friends affliction bears for long,
Within the sea-girt island set with trees;_

“_The island in whose bounds a goddess dwells,
Daughter of Atlas of the guileful spells...._

“_But for his land Odysseus longs so sore
That even the smoke upcurling from its shore
Fain would he see and die...._

“_Did not Odysseus on the gods bestow
Guerdon of sacrifices long ago,
Down in wide Troy beside the Argive ships?
Why does your wrath, O Zeus, afflict him so?_“[11]

Zeus gently reproved his splendid daughter. Is it to be supposed that he has forgotten wise Odysseus, famed for his piety, and the constant friend of gods and men? But there are reasons—partly the foolishness and rashness of the hero and his men—why all these delays and reverses have fallen upon him; and but for Zeus they would have brought on him destruction long ago. Athena may set her mind at rest, however: the hour has come for his deliverance. The great Father of the Gods turned to his messenger:

“_Hermes,—for ever as herald thou bear’st the behests of immortals— Bring to the fair-tressed nymph our will’s immutable verdict, Even that patient Odysseus return and arrive at his homeland.... Thus is he fated his friends once more to revisit and once more Win to his high-roofed home and arrive at the land of his fathers._“[10]

Swift as light itself, Hermes sped down to Calypso’s island and passed up through the flowering garden that embowered her cavern. He paused a moment before entering, to let his glance roam over the peaceful beauty of the scene and to breathe the delicious fragrance of the evening air.

_Till at the last, when his spirit was fully contented with gazing, Into the wide-mouthed cavern he entered; and standing before her Straightway known was the god to the beautiful goddess Calypso, Seeing that never unknown is a deity unto another, None of the spirits immortal, not e’en if he dwells at a distance._[10]

Calypso greeted him gladly, not divining the cruel message that he was charged to deliver. And while she hospitably set before him the deathless food of the gods, she eagerly inquired the reason of his unwonted visit.

“_Why come you, Hermes of the Rod of Gold,
Gracious and dear? You come not oft of old.
Speak, and most gladly to my power will I
Do your desire, if fate have so controlled._“[11]

Hermes was reluctant to tell his errand, knowing the pain that it would cause Calypso; and not until the meal was over did he reveal it. He had come against his will, he said, with a decree of Zeus concerning the hero whom she is detaining in her island. Odysseus must be released.

_So spake he; but aghast thereat his word
The bright of Goddesses Calypso heard,
And answering, spake a winged word to him:
“Jealous you are, O Gods, to envy stirred_

_“Beyond all others, and can never brook
On loves of Goddesses and men to look...._

_“Yet I it was who rescued him, while he
Clung round the keel, alone, when mightily
Zeus shattered with a fiery thunderbolt
His racing ship amid the purple sea._

_“There his good comrades perished; him alone
Hither by flood and driving tempest blown,
I loved and nourished, and had thought to keep,
Deathless and ageless always for my own.”_[11]

The love of Calypso, of which she spoke so simply and frankly to Hermes, was something deeper than caprice. It was rooted in that heroic act when she had toiled to drag him up out of the fiercely beating surf, and had brought him back from the brink of death to the cheerful light of day. She had given him his life, and her love with it; and ever since she had striven to keep him at her side, thinking to win his love in return. But she was no witch, to wreak evil spells over an unwilling heart; and though the blow that Hermes had dealt her was a bitter one, she replied with dignity. She would consent to the will of Zeus, not merely because he might not be withstood, but because it was her desire to do good to Odysseus.

“_Let him go hence across the barren sea;
Howbeit his convoy cannot come from me,
Since oared ships I have not to my hand,
Nor any mariners his crew to be_

“_Over the ridges of the broad sea-floor:
Yet will I gladly teach him all my lore,
And naught will hide of counsel, so that he
Free from all harm may reach his native shore._“[11]

So the Messenger of Zeus departed; and Calypso went sadly across the island to the spot where she knew Odysseus was sitting. As she came near she could see him, gazing out to sea, home-sick and despairing. So he had sat this many a day, turning from her in coldness or in anger to go and mourn for far-off Ithaca and his mortal wife. Why could he not be content to remain with her? Was Penelope then so very beautiful—more beautiful than she, a goddess? Had she not offered him immortality? Had she not lavished tenderness upon him? And now she knew that at the first word of her hateful news he would joyfully prepare to go, and leave her alone with her regret. As she came up and stood by his side, her heart was sore at the perversity of fate. But there was no rancour in it; and having given her word, she would fulfil it generously. So she put her hand upon his shoulder gently as he sat with averted face:

“_No more, unhappy man, sit mourning there,
Nor let your life be wasted; for to-day
Myself unasked your journey will prepare._

“_Up therefore, hew long beams, and skilfully
Fit them with tools a broad-floored raft to be;
And build aloft a spar-deck thereupon
To carry you across the misty sea._

“_But water I will store on it and bread,
And the red wine wherewith is comforted
Man’s heart, that you be stayed from famishing;
And lend you raiment; and your sail to spread_

“_Will send a following wind, that free from ill
Home you may win, if such indeed the will
Be of the Gods, who hold wide heaven, and are
Greater than I to purpose and fulfil._“[11]

The great good news was too wonderful for Odysseus to believe. Bewildered and doubting, he forgot his usual courtesy, and uttered an ungracious speech. Is she not deceiving him? Does she not intend some evil?

“_Other is here thy device, O goddess—not homeward to send me—
While on a raft thou bidd’st me retraverse a gulf of the ocean
Such in its terrors and perils that never a well-built vessel
Voyaging swiftly and gladdened by Zeus-sent breezes will cross it.
Ne’er will I mount on a raft—still less if it give thee displeasure—
Art thou not willing to swear me an oath and solemnly promise
Never against me to plot a device that is evil to harm me._“[10]

Odysseus had suffered so much at the hands of angry gods that he could not give credit to Calypso’s generosity. He suspected her of anger too; and rather than risk the perils of an awful voyage like the last, he would remain here upon the island. His words would have embittered a smaller soul; but Calypso saw what was passing in his mind, and answered him playfully:

“_The Goddess bright and bland
Calypso, smiling, stroked him with her hand,
and spoke a word and answered: “Verily
A rogue you are, and quick to understand,_

_Such words are these you have devised to say!”_[11]

And then, knowing that he was really apprehensive of danger, her voice dropped to a deeper tone, as she gave him the solemn oath of the great gods.

“_Now Earth I take to record here to-day,
And the wide heaven above us, and the dread
Water abhorred that trickles down alway,_

“_(Which is the mightiest and most dread to break
Of all the oaths the blessed Gods may take)
No practice for your hurt will I devise,
But take such thought and counsel for your sake_

“_As for mine own self I would reckon good,
If in the like extremity I stood.
For my own heart is righteous, nor my heart
Iron within me, but of piteous mood._“[11]

He was convinced at last; and together they went back to the cavern for the evening meal. Calypso served to Odysseus his mortal food, and her handmaidens set before her the deathless wine of the immortals. And while they ate, she suddenly realized how soon she must part from him. Her brave mood faded as she thought how lonely she would be when he had gone; and thought too of the struggles which Odysseus had yet to make before he reached his home. Again the haunting question came—Why need he go at all? Why would he not stay with her? And though she knew there was no hope, she pleaded with him once more.

“_Odysseus, may your longing nought withhold
To your own land so straightway to be gone?
Then fare you well; but had your heart foretold_

“_How many woes the fates for you decree
Before you reach your country, here with me
You had abode, and in this house had kept,
And been immortal, howso fain to see_

“_That wife for whom through all your days you pine:
Yet deem I not her beauty more than mine.
Since hardly mortal woman may compare
In shape and beauty with my race divine._“[11]

Odysseus had recovered his gallantry now. He begged Calypso not to be wroth with him for desiring to go, and acknowledged that Penelope was by no means so fair as she. As to the ill that he had still to suffer, he would incline his heart to endurance: “And now, let this too follow after, if it will.”

Under his courteous manner lay a stern resolve; and as soon as morning came, Calypso set herself to prepare his going. Though her heart was very sore, she helped him readily.

CALYPSO & ODYSSEUS

_Patten Wilson_
]

_... The nymph threw round her a garment of glistering whiteness, Delicate, lovely; and over her waist then fastened a girdle, Beautiful, fashioned of gold; and her head in a hood she enveloped. Then she bethought her to send on his way great-hearted Odysseus. Firstly a great wood-axe, in his hands well-fitted, she gave him, Fashioned of bronze, two-edged. ... ... and going before him Led to an end of the isle where tall straight timber was growing; Alder was there and poplar and pine which reacheth to heaven, Dry long since, well-seasoned and buoyant to float on the water._[10]

Odysseus wrought joyfully at the raft, building with infinite care and skill a strong, seaworthy vessel. Calypso brought out to him the store of fair cloth that she had woven upon her loom, and of this he made the sails, with “brace and sheet and halyard.” When all the strenuous toil was completed, he drew the raft on rollers down to the sea and made ready to sail.

_Now was the fourth day come, and all of his labour was ended; So on the fifth day sped his departing the goddess Calypso, Bathing him first and arraying him freshly in fragrant apparel. Then to the raft she conveyed dark wine in a bottle of goat-skin —One was of wine and another, a greater, of water—and viands Stowed in a wallet; and many a toothsome relish she added. Then did she send him a favouring breeze both gentle and kindly._[10]

So Calypso was left alone again on her little island; and Odysseus, speeding before a favouring wind, was too absorbed to give much thought to her. Freedom and the thought of home filled him with exultation; and all his care was bent to navigate the boat. But a grateful memory of her survived in aftertimes; and often he would recall her words to him, when she had given him the vow of good faith:

_For my own mind is righteous, nor my heart
Iron within me, but of piteous mood._[11]

-----

Footnote 10:

From Mr H. B. Cotterill’s translation of the _Odyssey_ (Harrap & Co.).

Footnote 11:

From Professor J. W. Mackail’s translation of the _Odyssey_ (John
Murray).

_Homer: Nausicaa_

Nausicaa was the only daughter of Alcinous, King of Phaeacia. Young and beautiful, reared amid abundant wealth, the idol of parents and stalwart brothers, she is yet simple and sweet and quite unspoiled. Her father was lord over a rich seafaring folk; a kindly, generous, impetuous man. Her mother, Queen Arete, was a star among women; so wise and noble that the people saluted her as a god, and Alcinous worshipped her with absolute devotion. There is hardly anything in Homer more beautiful than the loving description that Nausicaa gives of her mother sitting beside Alcinous in the great hall like a benign goddess, ready to stretch a welcoming hand to the stranger and the suppliant. Even the great goddess Athena had words of praise for Arete, when she met Odysseus on the road coming up from the harbour:

“_Her Alcinous took to wife,
And honoured her as living woman none_

“_Of wedded wives is honoured upon earth:
Such is the worship paid her (and her worth
No less) by King Alcinous our lord
And by the children who from them have birth._

“_Yea, all her people, when she goes abroad,
Salute her and account her as a god.
For of so excellent a wit is she,
Her woman’s wisdom puts a period_

“_To strife of men who in her favour stand.
And if to you she reach a helping hand,
Hope you may have to see your friends, and reach
Your high-roofed house, and your own native land._”[12]

Nausicaa, as we shall see, is worthy of her parentage. The gods were gracious at her birth, and gave her the fine qualities of both father and mother. Yet courage and resource and a wise generosity sit lightly on the youthful figure that flits through the Sixth Book of the _Odyssey_. She is a mere girl, fresh and untried, with an irresistible gaiety of heart and a tender regard for home ties. Her changing moods and caprices are like dancing sunlight, and now and then there falls upon her a soft shadow of wistfulness, cast by the ‘long, long thoughts’ of youth.

Her pretty head holds its own romantic visions, which she cannot, from girlish shyness, bring herself to talk about freely, even to the dear indulgent father. So for fear of his teasing and laughter, she practises a little harmless deceit on him; which, however, does not deceive him in the least, because his love can look right through it.

So she moves before us, a creature of grace and beauty, of fineness and strength; but withal so happy and human that the thought of her has the bracing sweetness of upland meadows, or the breath of the summer sea. Yet it is this fresh young girl whom we have to consider for a moment as the unconscious rival of Penelope. The idea of such a rivalry seems absurd, in connection with Nausicaa. And so it is, taken clumsily out of its setting and robbed of the poet’s delicate art. Yet the suggestion is clear; and the marvel is that Homer has contrived to bring her out of the ordeal with her young innocence quite untouched. The beats of the love-god’s wings only fan her in passing, and she is left unhurt by a single barb. For a happy instant she glimpses him in flight, and stretches a welcoming hand in naïve pleasure. But the moment after, he has fled in jewelled light and she is left, wondering and wistful, but scathless yet.

So Nausicaa lives, a peerless girl in Homer’s group of immortal women. She has served his purpose in the epic plan—to link the story with Penelope and to enhance her dignified maturity. She has served too, in the strongest way, to accentuate the chivalry and constancy of the hero. But in doing this, the tenderest care has been taken that she shall not be despoiled of her exquisite charm.

* * * * *

Poseidon the Sea-god was still wrathful with Odysseus for the injury done to his son, the Cyclops. But having gone on a long journey to the land of the ‘blameless Æthiopians,’ Athena had compassed in his absence the escape of the hero. He had sailed joyfully from Calypso’s island, and for seventeen days had fared onward steadily, with a following wind. The wine and food that Calypso had given him were still unspent, when on the eighteenth day there loomed before him the island of Phaeacia, vast and shadowy in the morning mist. Here, he knew, were friendly hands and hearts; people who had never been known to refuse safe convoy to distressed mariners. And Odysseus, feeling that now at last the end of his struggles had come, steered straight ahead. But he reckoned without Poseidon. For that angry god, speeding on his homeward journey from Æthiopia to Olympus, looked down from the mountains of the Solymi and spied the raft of Odysseus, making for the safety of a Phaeacian harbour. Amazement smote him; then indignation, and then a furious desire for instant revenge. So this was what the immortals had been doing in his absence—plotting to befriend the man who had so foully mis-used his son. But no matter! If Athena must needs win in the end—and even the might of Poseidon could not eventually withstand her calm wisdom—her success should be at bitter cost to this artful rascal whom she favoured. So:

_The clouds at his command
Gathered, and with the trident in his hand
He stirred the sea and roused the hurricane
Of all the winds, and blotted sea and land_

_With clouds: night swept across the firmament:_

_... a monstrous wave abaft
Came towering up, and crashed into the raft:
And the raft reeled, and off it far he fell,
And from his hand shot out the rudder-shaft._[12]

It would take long to tell all that Odysseus suffered from that awful storm. Only the lion-heart that he was could have endured the terrible strain of it. The raft was lost, and for two days and nights the fury of the storm lashed him unceasingly. He was buffeted out of his course, and when at last a calm fell and he saw land ahead, he had only just enough strength left to strike out for it, with a great prayer in his heart for deliverance from the wrath of Poseidon.

It is this exciting incident, told with tremendous vigour, which is the prelude to the story of Nausicaa. For on the very night when the waves flung Odysseus ashore on her father’s island, she had a strange dream. A goddess stood by her bedside, in the likeness of a girl friend; and with hints of a happy marriage, bade her rise and go down to the washing pools.

_The grey-eyed Goddess, inly counselling
Odysseus mighty-hearted home to bring;
To the richly-carven chamber went
Where slept a maid, the daughter of the king,_

_Like any deathless goddess fair and bright,
Nausicaa....
... “Nausicaa,” said she, “why
Thus idly does your mother’s daughter lie,
The garments wrought with bright embroideries
Unheeded? yet your wedding-day draws nigh;_

_When clad in goodly raiment you must go,
And on your marriage train the like bestow._

· · · · ·

_Not long shall yet your maidenhood be worn.
Even now, amid the land where you were born,
Phaeacia’s princes woo you. Up, and bid
My lord your father yoke at break of morn_

_A mule-team and a cart whereon to lay
Girdles and gowns and broidered blankets gay.”_[12]

We who are watching behind the scenes know quite well who is this celestial visitor; and that the whispered words which have set Nausicaa’s cheeks tingling are a mere ruse of Athena to bring help to the luckless Odysseus. But Nausicaa has no hint of this; and waking with the morning sun streaming upon her, she smiles in wonder and hope. Then she dresses quickly and goes down to find her parents, musing upon the words of the goddess. The queen is sitting in the great hall, amid her handmaidens, winding the ‘dim sea-purple’; and the king, coming out to join the princes in council, meets Nausicaa on the threshold. Is there anywhere a more charming scene than this?

_“Papa dear, will you let me have to-day
A high wheeled waggon yoked, to take away
The goodly clothes and wash them in the stream?
For in the house all lying soiled are they._

_“Now for yourself it is no more than fit
That, when the councillors at council sit,
In clean array among your lords you go:
Also your house has five sons born in it,_

_“Two of them wedded now, but three are yet
Young bachelors, who evermore must get
New-washed attire when to the dance they go;
And now on all this charge my mind is set.”_

_So spake she, for her mouth for maiden shame
To her own father marriage might not name.
Howbeit he understood and answered her:
“Go, child: I grudge not any wish you frame,_

_“Mules or aught else: this thing my thralls shall do,
And yoke the high wheeled tilted wain for you.”_[12]

As we see, Alcinous can deny nothing to his fair young daughter. The lightly running mule-cart is ordered out, and Nausicaa and the maids set busily to work. It is refreshing to see this only daughter of a ‘king’ carrying out the linen and fleecy blankets that have been daintily wrought with needlecraft by her own hands. Alcinous, of course, is not to be regarded as possessing the power and state of a modern monarch; perhaps he was not a king at all, in our sense of the word. But there can be no doubt that his state was that of a rich and mighty lord, for he lives in a magnificence which makes the simple practical usefulness of his daughter all the more remarkable. She helps the servants to load the wagon, while the Queen herself places upon the box a skin of wine and many dainty things to eat at their midday meal, together with a golden flask of oil for their use when they wish to bathe.

When all is ready, Nausicaa drives off merrily, her women running at the side of the cart. Far out of the city they go, past the embattled walls and the market-place and the harbour: then on through farms and sloping, shimmering olive-gardens, until they reach the sea and the washing-pools—the very spot, in fact, where ‘toil-worn, bright Odysseus’ is sleeping the sleep of exhaustion, after his heart-breaking struggle with the waves. The mules are unyoked and the clothes are brought out of the cart and flung into the dark water. Then the girls bare their white feet, catch up their fluttering garments, and tread the clothes in the gushing water, gaily chattering the while. When all are cleansed, they are spread out in the sun on the pebbly beach, while the girls bathe and take their dainty meal upon the shore.

All this while there lay in a thicket quite close to them, the prostrate figure of Odysseus, like one dead. But when the afternoon was wearing on, the girls joined in a merry game of ball, before starting on their homeward journey. The lovely group lives before us as we read, fresh from their sea-bath, with crisping ringlets floating, cheeks touched to a rosier hue by exercise and fun, and all the charms of youth and beauty revealed as white arms throw the ball and twinkling feet run hither and thither after it, upon the yellow sand. Homer, in one of his rare exceptions, lingers a moment to tell us how Nausicaa looked on this occasion. But, characteristically, he does this by imagery, and imagery in motion.

_But when their hearts with food were comforted
Their kerchiefs they undid to play at ball;
And in the game white-armed Nausicaa led._

_Artemis the Arrow-showerer even so
Rejoices on the mountain side to go
All down the long slope of Taÿgetus
Or Erymanthus, while before her bow_

_Wild boar and fleet-foot deer flee fast away,
And round her move the wild-wood nymphs at play,
Daughters of Zeus the Lord of Thunder-clouds;
And Leto joys at heart; for fair are they,_

_Yet fairest of them all the child she bred;
And over all the rest her brows and head
Rise, easily known among them. Even so
Among her women shone the maid unwed._[12]

This is the moment for which Athena has been waiting, to bring help to Odysseus.

_Thereat the princess to a handmaiden
Threw the ball wide, and missed her, and it fell_

_In a deep eddy. From them all outbroke
A long shrill cry: and bright Odysseus woke;
And sitting up he pondered inwardly:
“O me, what land is this of mortal folk?”_[12]

He is dazed by his long, long sleep. Where is he? What land is this? Whose are those young figures that he can just see by peeping through the leafy thicket in which he lies? Are they the nymphs of the river along which he was drifted out of the sea? Or are they human maidens who may be besought to help? He does not hesitate long. At all hazards he must speak to them, for he is in desperate need. So, hastily breaking off a leafy bough to hide his nakedness, he strode out of his lair. His uncouth figure struck amazement and terror into the hearts of the girls.

_Dreadful to them the sea-stained man drew nigh:
And up and down they ran dispersedly
Along the jutting beaches; only then
The daughter of Alcinous did not fly:_

_Such courage put Athena in her breast:
Unfaltering she stood up and undistressed,
And faced him._[12]

For once Odysseus is at a loss. How shall he address her? He is almost naked, haggard, and sea-worn, a terrible object to girlish eyes. Shall he go up close, and in the attitude of the suppliant, clasp her knees? Or will not his touch and his close approach startle and shock her? But his wits are not long to seek. He decides that it will be better not to come too near, but to address her gently, from a little distance. “I kneel to you, Protectress. God are you, or mortal?” Thus he speaks first, gracefully complimenting her beauty and courage.

“_If a god indeed you be
Of those who in wide heaven abide in bliss,
Unto none else than very Artemis,
Daughter of Zeus Most High, I liken one
So tall and fair and beautiful as this;_

“_But if a mortal, such as dwell on earth,
Thrice fortunate are they who gave you birth,
Father and mother, and thrice fortunate
Your brethren; surely evermore great mirth_

“_And joyance fills them, while with hearts elate
They see a thing so lovely delicate
Upon the dancing-floor. But far beyond
All others is that man most fortunate,_

“_Who loading you with many a precious thing
May woo you and to share his home may bring._“[12]

Cunning Odysseus’s words are winged with a deeper significance than he knows, for all his subtlety and tact. Does Nausicaa recall her dream, just at this point? We cannot tell. But when he goes on to relate at length about the dreadful voyage on the raft through the vengeful storms of Poseidon, she pities and longs to help him. She has gauged him shrewdly, too. This eloquent stranger, with his air of frank deference, is no rogue nor fool; but whoever and whatever he may be, he is a suppliant whom it is the will of Zeus to succour. So she speaks cheerily to him, to allay his anxiety, telling him that he is in the land of a friendly people, whose king, Alcinous, is her father. She will herself guide him to the palace and see that he is cared for. Then she turns to reproach the silly fear of her maids:

“_Stand still, my women! Why so timorous
At a man’s face? You do not surely think
This man is here with ill intent to us?_

“_That living mortal is not, nor shall be,
Who to Phaeacia bearing enmity
May come: for very dear to heaven we are,
And dwell apart amid the surging sea._

“_... But to our abode
We must make welcome this poor wanderer.
Strangers and beggars all are dear to God._

“_... With this stranger be it so.
Give him to eat and drink, and make him bathe
In shelter, down the windswept bank below._“[12]

So Odysseus is bathed and clothed and fed; and Nausicaa, looking shyly at him as he reappears, is astonished at the wonderful change that has come over him. She speaks apart to the women, a little wistfully.

“_Listen, O white-armed girls, to what I say.
Not without warrant of the Gods’ array
Who hold Olympus, does this man arrive
In the divine Phaeacian land to-day._

NAUSICAA & ODYSSEUS

_Batten Wilson_
]

“_Uncomely at the first he seemed to be
But now the Gods are not more fair than he,
Who hold wide heaven: I would that such an one
Dwelt here and bore a husband’s name to me._“[12]

A little timid hope is dawning in her heart. Is it possible that this may be the lover of whom she dreamed? But she will not let him know her thoughts; and as she offers to guide him to the city, she tells him with modest dignity that he must not ride with her in the wagon. He must follow behind with the maids; and when the city walls are in sight, and they are near the houses of men, he must draw away from them and continue his journey alone. She is not discourteous, she explains; but it is not seemly for her to be seen by the people driving a strange man into the city.

“_And taunting speech from them I fain would shun,
Hereafter flung at this that I have done.
Proud-hearted are our people; and of them
Meeting us, thus might say some baser one:_

“_’And who is this, the stranger tall and gay
That here beside Nausicaa takes his way?
And where may she have found him? Aye, no doubt
She brings a husband back with her to-day!...’_

“_So will they say; and to my shame would be
That word, as I myself would think it shame,_

“_If any other girl in suchlike way
While her own parents lived, should go astray
In a man’s company._“[12]

But she gives him minute directions, so that he may find her father’s palace after she has left him. He will pass Athena’s grove, and the well, and the king’s park, before he comes to the town and the gate of the palace. He is to go right into the palace, and not to hesitate.

“_But when the forecourt and the palace-wall
Have hidden you, pass quickly up the hall
Straight to my mother. In the firelight she
Sits by the hearth, while off her distaff fall_

“_The threads of dim sea-purple, strand by strand,
Marvellous; and her maids behind her stand,
By the hall pillar, and my father’s chair
Next hers, where he, the wine-cup in his hand,_

“_Sits like a God. Yet pass him by, nor stay
Till round our mother’s knees your hands you lay.
For thus, although from very far you come,
Quickly shall dawn your glad returning day._”[12]

It all falls out as she has said. They start off as the sun is setting, and Odysseus follows behind the mule-cart at a little distance until they reach the sacred grove of poplars that Nausicaa has indicated. There he waits behind for a space, while she drives on to the palace. Her handsome young brothers come out to meet her, with hearty greetings and questions as to how the day has fared. But she does not make much response to them, leaving them to unharness the mules and carry out the clothing while she slips away to her room and the society of her old nurse.

* * * * *

Meanwhile Odysseus makes his way to the palace alone and is amazed at its size and magnificence.

_The brazen walls
Athwart and endlong from the threshold went_

_Even to the inmost chamber up the hall;
And a great frieze of blue ran round the wall;
And golden doors the stately house within
Shut off, and silver doorway pillars tall_

_Out of the brazen threshold sprang to hold
The silver lintel; and the latch was gold;
And gold and silver hounds on either hand
Stood._[12]

To this gorgeous palace, Alcinous and Arete give Odysseus a royal welcome. They are charmed with their guest: and when the queen, recognizing her handiwork on the robe that he is wearing, elicits an account of his meeting with Nausicaa, the king flames into anger.

_Answered and said Alcinous: “Sooth to tell,
Guest, in this thing my daughter did not well,
That hither with her maids she brought you not
Herself, since first before her feet you fell.”_

_And subtle-souled Odysseus answer made:
“Prince, on that faultless maiden be there laid
No blame herein: for with her hand-maidens
She bade me follow; but behind I stayed_

_“For fear of shame, lest haply should you see,
Your mind might deem some hateful thought of me.”_[12]

This is not exactly what had happened, as we know; but we do not love Odysseus any the less for the chivalrous lie. The most loving father can be unreasonable sometimes, and Alcinous would not have the sacred laws of hospitality broken, even for the maidenly prudence of his own sweet daughter. Impetuously he tries to make amends:

“_Nay, O guest,
Not so is framed my heart within my breast,
To be stirred up to anger without cause.
In all things to observe the law is best._

“_Fain were I—Zeus our Father hear me vow,
And thou, Athena, and Apollo, thou!—
Such as you are and minded as I am,
You took to wife my daughter even now,_

“_And were called son-in-law of me the king,
Abiding with us._“[12]

But Nausicaa’s dream was a lying vision; and the fine tact of Odysseus is sorely put to it to find words for the inevitable refusal. He is silent for a time; and then, beginning the recital of all his eventful story, he gradually reveals to them who he is, and tells about his home and the gentle wife to whom he is longing to return. To the king and queen his answer causes little regret. It means that they may keep their fair daughter a little longer; and are there not many Phaeacian princes from whom they may choose a mate for her when she is ready? But Nausicaa, to whom the nurse brings word of what is passing as she sits in her beautiful chamber, hears the reply of Odysseus with a little pang that she has never felt before. It does not linger very long, however, and when the day comes for Odysseus’ departure, and the guests are trooping into the hall for the last banquet in his honour, she steals out among them to bid him farewell. It is the last time we see her.

_But by the doorway of the stately hall
In godlike beauty stood Nausicaa;
And eyed him marvelling, and bespake him so:
“Fare well, O guest, that when you homeward go,
Me too you may remember, and that first
To me the ransom of your life you owe.”_[12]

Odysseus’ reply is gallant; but it is not mere gallantry. He vows that he will never forget her. Only let great Zeus and Hera bring him safely home:

“_Then would I alway
To you, O maid, who rendered me my life,
As to a God, in that far country pray._”[12]

-----

Footnote 12:

From Professor J. W. Mackail’s translation of the _Odyssey_ (John
Murray).

_Æschylus: Clytemnestra_

We come now to the heroines of Attic Tragedy. The women of Homer, with all their romantic beauty and charm, gleam on us from a far distance. A new type of heroine has arisen, reborn out of the legends of the remote past into a new age; and evoked by a poetic genius which is greatly different from that of the Homeric epics.

In the interval which had elapsed since the epics were composed, civilization had advanced, life had grown more complex, and women had attained to a fuller and freer existence. It was the Great Age of Greece; and as in our own Elizabethan Age, the poetic genius of the time was impelled to find expression in dramatic form.

From all these causes, we shall find that the women of Attic Tragedy are possessed of a stronger and more vivid personality than their Homeric forerunners. They are resolute, purposeful, passionate—women of action as well as of feeling. Physical beauty they do possess, as well as grace and charm. Neither do they lack the gentler qualities which are usually supposed to be peculiarly feminine. Indeed, we could probably find an eminent example of every so-called feminine virtue if we went through the range of the heroines. But the stress is not now laid merely on beauty and the gentler graces. It is laid rather on a combination of these qualities with strength of intellect and will, generous emotions, and a soaring spirit.

Such a change would appear to be right and natural—in fact, almost inevitable. We should expect that the passage of the centuries in an advancing civilization would give the woman time and space ‘to bourgeon out of all within her’; and that with a more harmonious development she would definitely gain in mental height. We should expect, too, that the dramatic genius would create a more clear-cut individuality than that given by the epic poet in a long narrative chiefly concerned with the doings of menfolk. So that we are not surprised to find the women of tragedy possessed of great vitality, and occupying a very large share of the dramatists’ attention. What does surprise us, however, is to discover that many of these newer heroines are the very women whom we have already met in the Homeric poems: that they have been taken straight over from the heroic age, out of the ancient heroic themes, and made to live over again, a new and vastly different life.

This brings us to a point which it is well to keep in mind. Sometimes the heroines of Greek Tragedy do very terrible things and are placed in situations of appalling horror. Those acts, and the circumstances out of which they spring, not only repel us but seem to be at variance even with the spirit of the poet himself. Sometimes the heroine is the victim of tyrannic physical force, and frequently again there is the clash of motive, for which death seems to be the only solution. Strange crimes, unheard of and almost unthinkable, sometimes darken the atmosphere around them. Age-old curses and hereditary feuds pursue them: the terrible gift of beauty weighs them down; and over all broods fate, a lurking, indefinable power against which, in the last resort, they are powerless to stand.

There is then, sometimes in the heroines themselves and almost always in their environment, an element of barbarism which troubles us. The touch of savagery repels us all the more from its contrast with the exquisite poetry in which it is enshrined, and the noble spirit of that poetry. We wonder why the dramatist should have placed creatures so sensitive and highly wrought in situations which are so crudely appalling; and the incongruity is not shaken off until we remember the nature of the material upon which the poet is constrained to work. For the Attic dramatists went for the subjects of their poetry directly to stories out of the primitive past—old legends which, though sometimes very beautiful, nearly always contain elements of cruelty and horror. The reason why they did this is interesting, and explains some curious points about Greek Drama.

To us it seems strange that these poets, whose ideas were probably as ‘advanced’ to their contemporaries as our modern Drama is to us, did not take their themes out of the vastly interesting and even momentous life of their own day. Very occasionally they did this, as we know from the drama of Æschylus called _The Persians_, which deals directly with that tremendous event of Greek history the Persian Invasion. But almost always, as we have said, they turned away from their own time, and looked back upon the ancient past for the subject-matter of Drama. It is probable that poetical motives influenced them to some extent—the same that made Milton turn back to the Hebrew story of the creation, and Tennyson occupy himself for nearly fifty years with the Arthurian legend. But there was another, and more compelling reason; and it lay in the religious character of the Attic theatre.

Greek Drama was a ritual, performed in honour of the gods. It had its origin in the worship of the Thracian god Dionysus or in a still older cult of ancestor-worship; and it had an established convention that its themes should be taken from legendary heroic subjects. So that the poet, however he might modify character, was bound by tradition to the main outline of the early stories. As we shall see, he imbued those themes and characters with new significance. Just as Milton puts the Reformation spirit into the story of Adam and Eve, and Tennyson makes the Arthur of Celtic legend into an ideal of modern gentlehood, Æschylus and Sophocles and Euripides vitalize the old legendary forms with the spirit of their own age. The spirit of that age was profoundly interested in religion—perhaps because it was beginning to lose its religion. It was passing out of unquestioning belief in the old Olympian hierarchy; but it had not yet attained to a new belief with any clearness. And an extremely interesting fact is that here in the drama, in the very cradle of religion, the new thought begins to manifest itself quite clearly, despite the trammels of convention. Each of the three tragedians represents some phase of it; each shows, in greater or less degree, evidence of the transition period in which old superstition was being broken down; but each steadily maintained, through the crash of falling faith, the sanctity of the moral law. It is this clear view, this austere purpose and steady aim at the highest, which gives Attic Tragedy its grandeur, and the women of Attic Tragedy their surpassing interest.

* * * * *

What has been said above about the barbarity of the legends on which Greek Drama is based, applies particularly to the story from which the figure of Clytemnestra was taken. It was a history of wrongdoing, of foul guilt going back for generations: or rather, the history of a sin which, to use the words of the poet himself, begot more sin in each succeeding generation. Æschylus wrote his greatest work around this theme, a trilogy of three dramas called the _Agamemnon_, the _Choephorœ_, and the _Eumenides_. The first two of these dramas furnish the material for the story of Clytemnestra. The last deals with the remorse of Orestes, her son, and the atonement by which the long record of crime is finally closed and a new era of hope begins. Clytemnestra is, as it were, the last sacrifice demanded by the Furies which had pursued the house of Tantalus so long, and she represents in herself the two forces by which that vengeance had always been effected—a wrong done and a wrong suffered. For Æschylus makes us see that it is not only by the first sin of Tantalus that all his descendants have been relentlessly pursued; but that each in his turn has added something of his own—some crime of passion or of pride—to bring the penalty on himself.

It is from this standpoint that we must look at Clytemnestra and judge of her action. She was the instrument of a power beyond herself, the dread fate which had marked Agamemnon the king, her husband, as another victim of the hereditary curse. But she was not merely an instrument. She had fallen prey to her own unlawful passion, and when she struck the blow which fate ordained, it was not impelled by the single motive of revenge for the sacrifice of Iphigenia, but a confusion of passionate anger and conscious guilt.

The _Agamemnon_ opens with the joyful announcement of the fall of Troy. The scene is laid in the wealthy city of Mycenæ, in the palace of Agamemnon the king, where a watch had been kept for many months for the return of the Greek fleet. Ten years before, when the fleet had sailed for Troy to avenge the carrying-off of Helen, there had been left behind in the royal home a mother stricken by an awful grief. For the King Agamemnon, delayed at Aulis by adverse winds, and in brutal haste to be gone, had offered up to the gods a human sacrifice—the sacrifice of his own young daughter Iphigenia. The prayers of Clytemnestra the queen, and the tears of the beautiful girl herself, could not prevail upon him. Iphigenia’s life was forfeited to a hideous superstition, and the host sailed away, leaving Clytemnestra overwhelmed with sorrow and wrath. Here then are the two contributing elements to the tragedy—the wrong done and the wrong suffered. Agamemnon, driven on by the curse which lay over his house, blinded by his own pride and headstrong impatience to the true nature of the crime that he was committing, was forging the weapon of his own destruction. And here too we have the deed which accounts for and explains Clytemnestra—making of her not the mere savage murderess of tradition, without a touch of humanity, but an outraged mother, the avenger of her child.

It is necessary to emphasize this point a little because we have been used to regard Clytemnestra as a mere monster of cruelty. It is therefore a shock of surprise, when we come to Æschylus for her story, to find that he has made her quite human. He is not concerned in her case, any more than with the other persons of his Drama, to expose intricate motive, or to paint delicate shades of character. In his task of hewing out dramatic form—of virtually creating Drama—he left subtlety and ingenuity and stagecraft to be perfected by his successors. Hence he is not exercised very much about making his plot a plausible one, or to explain how its incidents are effected. He has a great religious purpose; and this, with the ritual form in which he had to work, subordinates the purely dramatic elements. But he does clearly let us see—and this is all the more important from his usual reticence—that the whole course of Clytemnestra’s action was determined by Agamemnon’s inconceivable cruelty.

This point eludes us often, because we accept the sacrifice of Iphigenia as an act belonging to a barbarous age. So it is, but we forget that the age of Agamemnon had practically left barbarism behind it. The slaughter of Iphigenia must have been almost as revolting to the ideas of that time as it is to us; and although in times of national crisis fanatical minds may have been capable of reviving the savage custom of human sacrifice, that is no justification of Agamemnon. And that he submitted to the superstitious frenzy, and offered up the life of his child, was the act which armed Clytemnestra against him.

The deed was, however, of a piece with his character. He was haughty, passionate, headstrong, brooking no resistance and no rivalry: a man of tremendous force of character who had grown too great and who in his pride had even dared to dishonour Apollo himself in the person of his votaries. To such a man, who after ten years’ preparation found his fleet hindered by unfavourable gales, the slaying of his daughter was merely an unpleasant step toward the fulfilment of his purpose. Her beauty and her youth were of little account, and her mother’s tears and entreaties were brushed aside as weakness.

_Sin from its primal spring
Mads the ill-counselled heart, and arms the hand
With reckless strength. Thus he
Gave his own daughter’s blood, his life, his joy,
To speed a woman’s war, and consecrate
His ships for Troy._[13]