6.127-161

Odysseus is about to “mingle” with the girls, even though he is naked. The word μίξεσθαι (136) can mean simply “to go amongst,” but it is also the usual word for sexual intercourse in Greek poetry, and young maidens at play are often a target for abduction and rape in early Greek hexameter (cf. Homeric Hymn to Demeter 4-20; Homeric Hymn to Aphrodite 117-25). As he does with Nausicaa, so here the poet portrays Odysseus with symbols that suggest he is both vulnerable and potentially threatening.

Filthy and caked with brine, the stranger looks σμερδαλέος, “fearsome” to the maidens, and they scatter in fear. Not Nausicaa, however:

οἴη δ᾽ Ἀλκινόου θυγάτηρ μένε· τῇ γὰρ Ἀθήνη
θάρσος ἐνὶ φρεσὶ θῆκε καὶ ἐκ δέος εἵλετο γυίων.
στῆ δ᾽ ἄντα σχομένη·

Only the daughter of Alkinous remained, for Athena
put courage in her heart and took the fear away from her body.
She stood firm, facing him.

Odyssey 6.139–41

The phrase οἴη δ᾽ Ἀλκινόου θυγάτηρ μένε (139)—a rare variant of the “accompaniment motif”—sums up neatly the ambiguity in the confrontation. Nausicaa faces the scary looking stranger alone, without the usual company of attendants, a potentially dangerous position for a young girl. She and the others have thrown off their veils, another risky gesture, especially out in the countryside where satyrs may lurk. On another level, both actions might be seen as forward, especially for Nausicaa, given the feelings that her dream seems to have stirred. All the conflicting impulses in the young princess surface in this moment.

Odysseus, meanwhile, must proceed carefully. In his present state of disarray, he might well frighten the young princess and ruin his chances for getting into the good graces of the island’s rulers. Kneeling and grabbing her knees, the usual posture for a suppliant, seems too forward: better to approach her more gently. The speech that follows ranks with his most impressive. He sizes up the young maiden and aims for just the right amount of flattery without coming on too strong. Invoking Artemis—almost as if he had heard the poet’s simile—he signals that his thoughts about the princess are both reverent and chaste. And yet, as he passes on to the possibility that such a vision might actually be mortal, he ever so gently hints that his thoughts have strayed into a different territory. Her family would be thrilled to see her heading to a dance, such a flourishing young shoot. The word θάλος (157) carries the sense of young, vigorous growth, the kind of virgin that might well be compared to Artemis, but also with fertility in reserve. In short, an excellent future wife. Sure enough, Odysseus next ponders the fate of the lucky man who would lead her into marriage.

The tone is complex here. We receive the signals sent by Odysseus’s words differently than does Nausicaa. From our perspective, Odysseus is laying it on pretty thick. We know he is speaking to a vulnerable girl, in whom conflicting emotions are swirling. Curiosity about men and sex has recently surfaced inside her, nudged by Athena; at the same time, she is still relatively naïve, happy to play catch at the springs. Since we are not to believe, I think, that Odysseus really contemplates the possibility that Nausicaa is a goddess, Homer runs the risk of having his hero come across to us as a cynical cad, not a heroic survivor. And yet, we also know that Odysseus himself is in a delicate situation, needing Nausicaa on his side but at risk of an entanglement with her that might derail his homecoming.

Homer is probably drawing on traditional material here. A mortal man suddenly confronted with a woman who might be a goddess is a situation ripe with possibilities for the storyteller. The Homeric Hymn to Aphrodite, a poem composed around the same period as the Odyssey, tells the story of how Aphrodite is forced by Zeus to fall in love (or at least in lust) with Anchises, a prince of the royal family in Troy and father of Aeneas. (See Book 5.1–42 essay.) The goddess finds her intended paramour herding sheep on Mount Ida and approaches him disguised as a naïve young virgin, telling him that she has been snatched from the chorus of Artemis by Hermes to be his wife and bear him children. The roles here are the reverse of what we see in the Odyssey, and this poet exploits the irony in the situation to full comic effect. The young prince thinks he will manipulate the apparently innocent maiden and have his way with her. He, like Odysseus, begins with hyperbolic flattery:

"χαῖρε, ἄνασσ᾽, ἥ τις μακάρων τάδε δώμαθ᾽ ἱκάνεις,
Ἄρτεμις ἢ Λητὼ ἠὲ χρυσέη Ἀφροδίτη
ἢ Θέμις ἠυγενὴς ἠὲ γλαυκῶπις Ἀθήνη,
ἤ πού τις Χαρίτων δεῦρ᾽ ἤλυθες, αἵτε θεοῖσι
πᾶσιν ἑταιρίζουσι καὶ ἀθάνατοι καλέονται,
ἤ τις Νυμφάων, αἵτ᾽ ἄλσεα καλὰ νέμονται
ἢ Νυμφῶν, αἳ καλὸν ὄρος τόδε ναιετάουσι
καὶ πηγὰς ποταμῶν, καὶ πίσεα ποιήεντα."

"Hail, my lady! Are you some goddess who has come
to my home, Artemis or Leto or golden Aphrodite,
or noble Themis or Athena with glancing eyes?
Or perhaps you are one of the Graces, who accompany
all the gods and are called immortal,
maybe one of the nymphs who haunt the lovely groves
or live here on this beautiful mountain, around
the springs of the rivers and the grassy meadows."

Hymn to Aphrodite 92–99

The assignation proceeds, but afterward the tables are turned when the goddess assumes her divine stature and awakens the young prince. He is terrified and begs her not to punish him:

"αὐτίκα σ᾽ ὡς τὰ πρῶτα, θεά, ἴδον ὀφθαλμοῖσιν,
ἔγνων ὡς θεὸς ἦσθα: σὺ δ᾽ οὐ νημερτὲς ἔειπες.
ἀλλά σε πρὸς Ζηνὸς γουνάζομαι αἰγιόχοιο,
μή με ζῶντ᾽ ἀμενηνὸν ἐν ἀνθρώποισιν ἐάσῃς
ναίειν, ἀλλ᾽ ἐλέαιρ᾽: ἐπεὶ οὐ βιοθάλμιος ἀνὴρ
γίγνεται, ὅς τε θεαῖς εὐνάζεται ἀθανάτῃσι."

"Right away when I saw you, goddess, I knew
you were immortal; you did not tell me the truth.
But I beg by Zeus who wears the aegis,
do not let me live enfeebled among mortals,
but take pity on me, since a man is no longer potent,
when he goes to bed with an immortal goddess."

Hymn to Aphrodite 185–90

Virgil may have been thinking of both sources when he has Aeneas encounter Venus, disguised as a young huntress looking for her sisters in the forest outside Carthage:

"ō quam tē memorem, virgō? namque haud tibi vultus
mortālis, nec vōx hominem sonat; ō, dea certē
(An Phoebī soror? an nymphārum sanguinis ūna?),
Sīs fēlīx nostrumque levēs, quaecumque, labōrem
et quō sub caelō tandem, quibus orbis in ōrīs
iactēmur doceās: ignārī hominumque locōrumque
errāmus ventō hūc vāstīs et flūctibus āctī.
multa tibi ante ārās nostrā cadet hostia dextrā."

“Oh how shall I address you, young maiden? For your face
hardly seems mortal, nor does your voice sound human. A goddess, surely—
the sister of Apollo? Or one of the family of nymphs?—
may you be prosperous and whoever you are, may you ease our labors,
and, under what sky finally, on what shores of this earth
we are landed, please reveal to us. We wander here not knowing
the lands or the people, driven by the wind and vast waves.
Many animals will fall dead, sacrificed before your altars.”

Aeneid 1.327–34

Virgil clearly has the Odyssey passage in mind, given his use of the Diana/Artemis simile soon after. The irony in the Homeric scene, part of the charming, light tone of the entire exchange, here becomes part of Virgil’s persistent questioning of his hero’s fitness for the mission of founding Rome. Allusions to Odysseus in the portrait of Aeneas always portray the Roman leader as inadequate, lacking in the supreme self-confidence of Homer’s hero. Whereas Odysseus uses flattery to manipulate a naive virgin, Aeneas seems quite sincere in his quandary about who this young woman might be. He does not, in fact, recognize his own mother, who is herself manipulating him.

Whether Virgil knew the Homeric hymn, or at least the myth behind it, we might be less sure, but the parallels are tantalizing. If we hear the story of Aphrodite and Anchises in the background of Aeneas’s encounter with Venus (the Roman Aphrodite), then we look on as the Roman hero replays the prelude to his own engendering. Compare Telemachus’ response to the disguised Athena in Book 1, when she asks if he is indeed the son of Odysseus:

"μήτηρ μέν τέ μέ φησι τοῦ ἔμμεναι, αὐτὰρ ἐγώ γε
οὐκ οἶδ᾽: οὐ γάρ πώ τις ἑὸν γόνον αὐτὸς ἀνέγνω."

"My mother says I am his son, but I myself
do not know; for who has known his own birth?"

Odyssey 1.215–16

We underestimate Virgil’s mastery of Homeric epic at our peril.

Further Reading

Tracy, S. 1990. The Story of the Odyssey, 39–42. Princeton: Princeton University Press.

Van Nortwick, T. 1992. Somewhere I Have Never Travelled: The Second Self and the Hero’s Journey in Ancient Epic, 100–191. New York: Oxford University Press.