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:

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:

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.

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?

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.

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

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.

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.

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:

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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:

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.

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: