Then Odysseus answered with a crafted tale. He said he was from Crete, son of a rich man by a bought woman, and that Idomeneus's brothers had honored him. He had once entertained Odysseus when a gale drove him there on the way to Troy. He named the cloak, tunic, and brooch Odysseus had worn — a golden pin with a hound gripping a fawn — and the herald Eurybates who went with him. Penelope wept as she listened, her heart melting like snow on the mountains when the west wind melts what the east has frozen, and the rivers run full. He spoke of the twelve days Odysseus had stayed while the north wind held the ships, and how the Cretans had given him barley-meal and glowing wine and bulls for sacrifice, and how Odysseus himself had spoken kindly among them before he sailed for Troy.
She said the tokens were sure — she herself had given him that dress — yet she would not see him again. Odysseus told her not to disfigure herself with grief: Odysseus was near, in Thesprotia, gathering wealth from that rich land, and would return before the old moon waned and the new appeared. He had gone to Dodona to learn Zeus's will from the oak — whether to come openly or in secret. May it be so, she answered; if your words come true you shall have such gifts and goodwill from me that all who meet you will call you blessed. Yet even as she wept she said she would set no more store by strangers' news until she saw Odysseus himself. He swore a solemn oath that all he said was true, and that Odysseus was even then planning his homecoming, rich with bronze and gold.
He answered that she should not waste her fair flesh with endless mourning; there was still hope, and he himself would swear Odysseus was near and would not be long away. She offered him a bath and a bed with rugs and blankets, but he refused soft coverings from the day he left snowy Crete; he would lie as he was, if only some careful old woman would wash his feet — one who had endured as much as he. Penelope called Euryclea, who had nursed Odysseus as a child. Wash the stranger's feet, she said — and notice how like my husband he is in feet and hands and voice.
The old woman covered her face and lamented: Odysseus, my child, I can do nothing for you. Strangers from far parts scorn your house, and these hard women mock whoever comes. I will wash your feet for Penelope's sake and for your own — for my heart is stirred. Many worn travelers have come here, but I never saw one so like Odysseus as you are in form and voice and feet. Those who have seen us both, Odysseus answered, have always said we were wonderfully alike.