
A warm bath, and the ghost of Calypso’s ease
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θερμὰ λοέτρʼ, ἐπεὶ οὔ τι κομιζόμενός γε θάμιζεν, ἐπεὶ δὴ λίπε δῶμα Καλυψοῦς ἠυκόμοιο. τόφρα δέ οἱ κομιδή γε θεῷ ὣς ἔμπεδος ἦεν.
warm baths; for he had not often been tended, ever since he left the house of fair-haired Calypso; till then his care had held unfailing for him, as a god’s.
The housekeeper’s maids have prepared a bath for the still-unnamed stranger in Alcinous’s palace. Before he bathes, the poet pauses on how long it has been since anyone tended Odysseus so — not since he left the nymph Calypso, who had kept him seven years.
The maids’ bath prompts a backward glance. Since he left Calypso, Odysseus has not been groomed and cared for like this; on her island his comfort had been constant, godlike, unbroken. The poem measures his hard road by the plain fact of a warm bath.
The undercurrent is what he gave up. κομιδή, ‘tendance,’ names exactly the immortal ease Calypso offered — warmth, food, a goddess’s care ‘as for a god,’ forever. He walked out of it toward salt and shipwreck. The warm water here is the first human kindness to match, for a moment, what he refused.
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