The old woman went upstairs rejoicing, to tell her mistress that her dear husband was inside. Her knees hurried, her feet stumbled. She stood over Penelope's head and said: Wake, Penelope, dear child, so you may see with your own eyes what you have longed for every day. Odysseus has come — he is in the house at last, late though it is. He has killed the proud suitors who troubled his house, ate his goods, and oppressed his son.
My dear nurse, wise Penelope answered, the gods have made you mad. They can make even the thoughtful foolish, and set the flighty on the path of sense. They have wrecked you, and you were sensible before. Why do you mock me when my heart is full of sorrow, to tell me this wild tale and wake me from a sweet sleep that held me and wrapped my eyelids? I have never slept so sound since Odysseus went to hateful Troy that should not be named. Go down again. If any of the other women had come with this and woken me, I would have sent her back in pain to the hall. Your old age shall spare you this once.
My child, Euryclea answered, I am not mocking you. It is truly Odysseus come home, as I say. He is the stranger they all slighted in the hall. Telemachus knew long ago that he was here, but in his prudence he hid his father's plans until he could take vengeance on the violence of those proud men. So she spoke, and Penelope was glad; she sprang from the bed, embraced the old woman, and let the tears fall. Come, dear nurse, she said — tell me truly, if he has indeed come home as you say, how he laid hands on the shameless suitors, alone as he was, and they were always here in a body.
I did not see, Euryclea answered, and I did not ask; I only heard the groaning of men being killed. We sat terrified with the doors shut until Telemachus called me — his father had sent him. Then I found Odysseus standing among the bodies piled on the floor all about him, spattered with blood and filth like a lion. Now the bodies are gathered at the courtyard gates, and he is purifying the house with sulphur. He sent me to call you. Come, so you may both enter into joy after many sufferings. He has come alive to his own hearth and found you and his son, and taken vengeance on the suitors.
Dear nurse, Penelope answered, do not laugh aloud yet in triumph. You know how welcome he would be to all in the halls if he came — above all to me and to the son we bore. But this tale is not true as you tell it. Some one of the immortals has killed the proud suitors in anger at their outrage and evil pride. They honored no one among men, bad or good, whoever came among them. So through their own recklessness they have met a shameless end. But Odysseus has lost his far return to Achaea, and is lost himself.
My child, Euryclea said, what word has escaped the barrier of your teeth? Your husband is here at his own hearth, and you say he will never come home. Your heart is always unbelieving. But come — I will tell you another clear sign: the scar of the wound the boar gave him with his white tusk long ago. I knew it while I washed him, and I wanted to tell you; but he laid his hands on my mouth and would not let me speak. Come with me; I stake my own life on it. If I deceive you, kill me with a most pitiful death. Dear nurse, Penelope answered, it is hard for you to grasp the counsels of the everlasting gods. Even so, let us go to my son, so that I may see the suitors dead, and the man who killed them.