The nobly born Ulysses shall escape
The doom of death and come to us again."
The best cheer, the finest wine, the best of everything is kept ready against the father's home-coming, which may be looked for any day, if haply he has escaped the doom of death. There is one passage in which we might suspect that the poet has intended to show the hardening effect of grief on Penelope's character, xv, 479. Penelope does not speak to her old servants any more; she passes them by without a word, apparently without seeing them. She does not attend to their wants as she used to do, and they, in turn, do not dare to address her. But we may forgive this seeming indifference inasmuch as it only shows how completely she is absorbed by her sorrow.
A companion picture to the love of Ulysses and Penelope is to be found in the conjugal relation of Alcinous, king of Phæacia, and his wife Arete, as described in the sixth book and the following. This whole episode is incomparably beautiful. Was there ever a more perfect embodiment of girlish grace and modesty, coupled with sweetest frankness, than Nausicaa? And what a series of lovely pictures is made to pass in quick succession before our eyes as we read the story! First, Nausicaa, moved by the desire to prepare her wedding garments against her unknown lover's coming, not ashamed to acknowledge the motive to her own pure heart, but veiling it discreetly before her mother; then the band of maidens setting out upon their picnic party, Nausicaa holding the reins; next the washing of the garments, the bath, the game of ball, the sudden appearance of Ulysses, the flight of her companions, the brave girl being left to keep her place alone, with a courage born of pity for the stranger, and of virtuous womanhood.
"Alone
The daughter of Alcinous kept her place,
For Pallas gave her courage and forbade
Her limb to tremble. So she waited there."
Who that has inhaled the fragrance of her presence from these pages can ever forget the white-armed Nausicaa! Then follows the picture of the palace, a feast for the imagination, the most magnificent description, I think, in the whole poem.