  This Sompnour in his styrop up he stood,
Upon the Frere his herte was so woodmad
That lyk an aspen leef he quok for ire.quaked
Lordyngs, quod he, but oon thing I desire;
I yow biseke that of your curtesye,
Syn ye han herd this false Frere lye,
As suffrith me, I may my tale telle.pray suffer
This Frere bosteth that he knowith helle,
And God it wot, that is but litel wonder,[134]
Freres and feendes been but litel asonder.[135]
Sir Clerk of Oxenford, our hoste sayde,Oxford
Ye ryde as stille and coy as doth a mayde[136]
Were newe spoused, syttyng at the bord;[137]
This day ne herde I of your mouth a word.
I trow ye study aboute som sophyme.sophism
But Salomon saith, everythyng hath tyme.
For Goddis sake as beth of better cheere,be
It is no tyme for to stodye hiere.study
Up in his stirrups did the Summoner start,
For with this Friar such rage was in his heart,
That like an aspen-leaf he shook for ire.
“Lordings,” cried he, “but one thing I desire,
And I beseech you of your courtesy,
Since you have heard this falsest Friar lie,
Suffer me, pray, my story now to tell.
This Friar boasts of how he knoweth hell;
Heav’n knows, that if he does it is no wonder,
For fiends and Friars are not far asunder.”
“Sir Clerk of Oxford,” then our landlord said
“You ride as shy and quiet as a maid
Newly espous’d, who sits beside the board;
All day we have not had from you a word.
I guess, some subtle lore you’re studying.
But Solomon says there’s time for everything.
Prithee, rouse up, and be of better cheer,
It is no time for your deep studies here. “Do not give us a sermon, or something so learned that we cannot understand it. Spekith so playn at this tyme, we yow praye,
That we may understonde that ye saye.
“Speak to us very plainly, now, we pray,
That we may understand the whole you say.” This worthy Clerk answered pleasantly, “Host, I am under your orders, so I will obey you, and tell you a tale which I learned at Padua, of a worthy clerk, who has been proved by his words and work. He is now deed and nayled in his chest,coffin
Now God yive his soule wel good rest!give
Fraunces Petrark,[138] the laureat poete,
Highte this clerk, whos rethorique swetewas named
Enlumynd al Ytail of poetrie,Italy
As Linian[139] did of philosophie,
Or lawue, or other art particulere;law
But deth, that wol not suffre us duellen here,
But as it were a twyncling of an ye,eye
Hem bothe hath slayn, and alle schul we dye.
“Now he is dead, and nailÉd in his chest,
I pray to God to give his spirit rest!
Francis Petrarch, the poet laureate,
This clerk was call’d, whose rhetoric sweet did late
Illume all Italy with poetry,
As Linian did with his philosophy,
And law, and other noble arts as well;
But death, that will not suffer us here to dwell,
But, as it were, a twinkling of an eye,
Hath slain them both, and we, too, all shall die.” Part I. To the west of Italy there is a territory called Saluces,[140] which once belonged to a marquis very much beloved by all his people. They all obeyed and respected him, both lords and commoners, and he was very happy. Besides, he was the noblest born of any one in Lombardy—handsome, and strong, and young—courteous to all, and discreet enough, except in some things where he was not quite perfect! and his name was Walter. The worst fault of him was the careless sort of life he led. He did nothing but hunt, and hawk, and amuse himself, instead of attending to more serious duties. This made his people very sorry, and they thought if Walter had a wife he would get more steady, and not waste his time so sadly. One day all his people went in a great crowd to see him; and the wisest one among them said—“O noble marquis, your goodness gives us courage to come to you and tell you what we want. Do not be angry, but deign to listen to us, for we all love you. The only thing needed to make us quite happy is for you to marry. We pray you, then, to let us find you a nice wife, and we will choose the noblest and best in the land.” Walter listened, and then answered—“My dear people, you know I am very comfortable as I am, and enjoy my liberty: I don’t want a wife. But if it makes you any happier, I will try and get one as soon as I can. As for choosing me one, pray don’t take so much trouble. I would much rather do that for myself. Only remember that when I am married, you must always show the greatest honour and respect to whoever she may be. For since I consent to give up my freedom to please you, you must not find fault with any one whom I choose.”All the people promised they would be quite content with any wife he liked, for they were so much afraid he would not marry at all if they didn’t. Then, to make quite sure, they begged him to fix exactly the day when the wedding should take place, and he did so, promising to get everything ready, according to their request. And the people thanked him on their knees and went away. Part II. Now, near the marquis’s palace, there was a village in which dwelt a poor man—poorer than the poorest of his neighbours. His name was Janicula, and he had a young daughter who was fair enough to see, called Griselda. But, in beauty of mind, Griselda was the fairest maiden under the sun. She had been brought up very humbly, and more often drank water than wine, and she worked so hard that she was never idle. But though this mayden tender were of age,
Yet in the brest of her virginitÉbreast, girlhood
Ther was enclosed rype and sad corrage;[141]mature, serious
And in gret reverence and charitÉlove
Hir olde pore fader fostered sche;
A fewe scheep spynnyng on the feld sche kepte,field
Sche nolde not ben ydel til sche slepte.would not be
And when sche hom-ward com, sche wolde bryngecame, bring
Wortis or other herbis tymes ofte,worts
The which sche schred and seth for her lyvynge,chop, boil, living
And made hir bed ful hard, and nothing softe.
And ay sche kept hir fadres lif on lofteever, supported
With every obeissance and diligence,
That child may do to fadres reverence.father’s
But though this maiden was as yet so young,
Under her girlish innocence there lay
A brave and serious spirit, ever strong;
And with good heart she laboured day by day
To tend and help her father, poor and grey.
Some sheep while spinning in the fields she kept,
For never was she idle till she slept.
And she would often, as she homeward sped,
Bring with her herbs and cresses gathered there,
Which for a meal she fain would seethe and shred.
Hard was her bed and frugal was her fare,
Keeping her father with untiring care,
And all obedience, and all diligence
That child can give to filial reverence. On this poor hard-working Griselda, the marquis Walter had often cast his eyes when he happened to pass her while hunting. And when he looked at her it was with no foolish thoughts, but with serious admiration for her virtue. He had never seen any one so young who was so good, and he made up his mind if ever he married anybody he would marry her. So, after the people’s visit, according to his promise to them, Walter began to prepare beautiful dresses and jewels, brooches and rings of gold, and everything proper for a great lady. And the wedding-day arrived, but no one had seen any bride, or could think where she was to come from! At last all the feast was ready, all the palace beautifully adorned, upstairs and downstairs—hall and chambers. The noble guests arrived who were bidden to the wedding—lords and ladies richly arrayed—and still there was no bride! The marquis made them all follow him into the village, to the sound of music. Now, Griselda, who knew nothing of all this, went that morning to fetch water from the well; and she heard say that this was to be the marquis’s wedding-day. So she hastened home, and thought to herself she would get through her work as fast as she could, and try to see something of the sight. “I will stand with the other girls at the door,” she said to herself innocently, “and I shall see the new marchioness, if she passes by this way to the castle.” Just as she crossed the door, the marquis came up, and called her. Griselda set down her water-cans beside the door in an ox’s stall,[142] and, dropping on her knees,[143] waited for the great lord to speak. The marquis said gravely, “Where is thy father, Griselda?” and Griselda answered humbly, “He is all ready here,” and hurried in to fetch him. Then the marquis took the poor man by the hand, saying, “Janicula, I shall no longer hide the wish of my heart. If you will consent, I will take your daughter for my wife before I leave this house. I know you love me, and are my faithful liegeman. Tell me, then, whether you will have me for your son-in-law.” This sudden offer so astonished the poor man that he grew all red, and abashed, and trembling. He could say nothing but—“My lord, it is not for me to gainsay your lordship. Whatever my lord wishes.” Yit wol I, quod this markys softely,yet
That in thy chambre, I and thou and sche
Have a collacioun, and wostow why?meeting, knowest thou
For I wol aske if that it hir wille be
To be my wyf, and reule hir after me;according to
And al this schal be doon in thy presence,done
I wol nought speke out of thyn audience.hearing
“Yet,” said the marquis, softly, “fain would I
That in thy chamber I and thou and she
Confer together—dost thou wonder why?
For I would ask her whether she will be
My wife—and rule herself to pleasure me;
And in thy presence all things shall be said:
Behind thy back no contract shall be made.” And while the three were talking in the chamber all the people came into the house without,[144] and wondered among themselves how carefully and kindly she kept her father. But poor Griselda, who had never seen such a sight before, looked quite pale. She was not used to such grand visitors. GRISELDA’S MARRIAGE ‘This is ynough, Grisilde myn, quod he.’ This is what the marquis said to her. “Griselda, it pleases your father and me that I should marry you, and I suppose you will not be unwilling.[145] But first I must ask you, since it is to be done in such a hurry, will you say yes now, or will you think it over? Are you ready to obey me in all things when you are my wife, whether I am kind to you or not? and never to say no when I say yes—either by word or by frowns? Swear that, and I will swear to marry you.” Wondering at all this, and trembling with fear, Griselda answered— “My lord, I am quite unworthy of the great honour you offer me; but whatever my lord wishes I will consent to. And I will swear never, so far as I know, to disobey you—not even if you wish to kill me, though I don’t want to die.” “That is enough, my Griselda,” said Walter, and he went gravely out at the door, and showed her to the people. “This is my wife, who stands here,” he said: “honour and love her, whoever loves me.” Then, so that she might not enter his castle in her poor gown, he bade all the gentlewomen robe her at once in beautiful clothes; and though these smart ladies did not much like touching the old clothes she had on, still they stript them all off her, and clad her all new and splendidly, from head to foot. Then they combed and dressed her hair, which was quite loose and disarranged, and with their delicate fingers they placed a crown on her head, and covered her with jewels, great and small. They hardly knew her, so beautiful she looked when she was thus richly attired. The marquis put a ring on her finger, which he had brought on purpose, and set her on a snow-white horse; and she was conducted, with great rejoicings, to the palace, where the day was spent in feasting and merriment till the sun set.[146] In short, heaven so favoured the new marchioness, that in a little time you would never have guessed she was of so humble birth; she might have been brought up in an emperor’s hall, and not in a hut with oxen. The people who had known her from her childhood could hardly believe she was Janicle’s daughter, she was so changed for the better. Moreover, her virtue and gentle dignity made her beloved by everybody, so that her fame was spread throughout all the country, and people even took long journeys to come and look upon her. Walter had not a fault to find with her. She made him happy by her excellence and her wifely homeliness, just as she made the people happy by her kindness and cleverness in redressing their wrongs. Part III. Griselda had a little girl at last, which was a great joy to them both, and to all the people. But Walter had a great longing to put his wife to the test—to see whether she was really as meek and patient and submissive as she seemed. I know not why he wanted to do this, for he had often tried her in little ways before, and had found her perfect; and for my part I think it is a cruel deed to grieve and torment a wife who does not deserve it, for the sake of needless proof. However, Walter did as follows. One night, while the baby was still very young, he came to her, looking stern and troubled; she was all alone, and he said, “Griselda, you have not forgotten the day when I took you out of your poor home. Well, although you are very dear to me, to my people you are not dear; they feel it a great shame to be the subjects of one who came of such mean rank. And since thy daughter was born they have murmured so greatly that I cannot disregard them, so I must do with the baby as the people choose, if I want to live in peace with them all. Yet what I must do is much against my will, and I will not do it without your consent; but I pray you to show me now how patient you can be, even as you swore to be, on our marriage day.” When Griselda heard this she did not know that it was all untrue, and she said calmly, “My lord, all shall be as you will. My child and I, we are both yours, living or dying. Do as you choose. For my part, there is nothing I fear to lose, but you.” The marquis was overjoyed to hear that, but he concealed his pleasure, and kept a very stern and sad face, and presently departed. He went to a man, to whom he gave certain directions how to act; then he sent the man to Griselda. This man was a sergeant,[147] the trusted servant of the marquis, and he stalked into Griselda’s chamber. “Madam,” he said, “you must forgive me if I do what I am compelled to by my lord. This child I am ordered to take away,” and the man made as though he would kill it at once. Suspecious was the defame of this man,ill-fame
Suspect his face, suspect his word also,
Suspect the tyme in which he this bigan.
Allas! hir doughter, that she lovede so,
Sche wende he wold han slayen it right tho;believed, then
But natheles sche neyther weep ne sikede,nevertheless, sighed
Conformyng hir to that the marquis likede.
But atte laste speke sche bigan,to speak
And mekely sche to the sergeant preyde,
So as he was a worthy gentil man,
That she moste kisse hir child er that it deyde.might
And in hir barm[148] this litel child sche leyde,lap
With ful sad face, and gan the child to blesse,
And lullyd it, and after gan it kesse.began, kiss
Suspicious of repute was this stern man,
Suspicious in his look, and speech also,
So was the time when he the deed began.
Alas! her baby, that she lovËd so,
Would he destroy it ere he turned to go?—
And yet she did not weep, she was resign’d
To all the wishes of her master’s mind.
To say a few meek words she then began,
And for one boon she pitifully pray’d,
That as he was a kind and worthy man
She might but kiss her baby ere it died.
And in her lap the little child she laid,
With mournful face, and did the baby bless,
And lull’d it with how many a soft caress! And then she said, in her gentle voice, “Farewell, my child; I shall never see thee again; but since I have marked thee with the cross, may He who died for us all bless thee! To him, little child, I give thy soul, for this night thou shalt die for my sake.”Truly, even to a nurse, this would have been hard to bear, but to a mother how far more grievous! Still she was so firm and brave that she soon gave up the baby to the sergeant, saying, “Take the little, tiny maid, and go, do my lord’s command. But one thing I pray you, that when it is dead you will bury the little body in some place where birds and beasts will not mangle it.” The sergeant would not promise her even that, but carried the child off with him.[149] He took the babe to the marquis, and told him exactly all that Griselda had said. The marquis certainly showed some little feeling and regret; yet he kept to his purpose, as men will when they are determined. He then bade the sergeant wrap up the child softly and tenderly, and carry it in secret, in a box or the skirt of a garment, to Bologna, where dwelt his sister, Countess of Panik.[150] She would foster it kindly; but whom the child belonged to was to be kept from all men’s knowledge. The sergeant did as he was commanded, and the marquis watched his wife to see if there should be any rebellion in her manner. But she did not change. She was always kind, and loving, and serious, and as busy and humble as ever. Not a word she spoke of the poor baby. Part IV. A few years afterwards, Griselda had another child—a little boy. This was still more joy to the people and to Walter than the other baby, because it was the heir. When the babe was two years old, the marquis took it into his head to tempt again his poor wife. Ah! how needless to torture her! but married men care for no limits when they find a patient wife! “Wife,” said the marquis, “I have told you how discontented are the people with our marriage; and since the boy’s birth their anger has been greater. Their murmuring destroys all my comfort and courage. They grumble, because when I am dead the blood of Janicle shall succeed to my heritage; and I cannot disregard the words they say! So I think I will serve him as I served his sister; but do not suddenly fly out with grief. Be patient, I beg of you, and command your feelings.” Griselda answered, sadly and calmly, when she heard this— I have, quod sche, sayd thus, and ever schal,
I wol no thing, ne nil no thing certayn,will not
But as yow list: nought greveth me at al,please
Though that my doughter and my sone be slayn
At your comaundement: this is to sayn,say
I have not had no part of children twayne,
But first syknes, and after wo and payne.sickness
Ye ben oure lord: doth with your owne thingbe, master
Right as yow list: axith no red of me;ask, advice
For as I left at hom al my clothing
Whan I first com to yow, right so, quod sche,
Left I my wille and al my liberte,
And took your clothing; wherfor, I yow preyeyou
Doth your plesaunce, I wil youre lust obeye.desire
“I have,” quoth she, “said this, and ever shall,
I wish not, nor will wish, it is certain,
But as you choose: I grieve me not at all,
Although my daughter and my son be slain
At your commandment: nor will I complain
That I have had no part in children twain,
But sickness first, and then a bitterer pain.
“Thou art our lord: do, then, with what is thine
E’en as thou wilt: ask not assent of me;—
For as I left at home all that was mine
When I came first to thee, right so,” quoth she,
“Left I my will and all my liberty,
And took new habits: wherefore, now, I pray
Do but thy pleasure, and I will obey.” “If I knew beforehand what your wish was,” said poor Griselda, “I would do it without delay; but now that I know your will, I am ready to die if you desire it; for death is nothing compared with your love!” When the marquis heard that, he cast down his eyes, and wondered how she could endure it all; and he went forth looking very dreary, but in reality he felt extremely pleased. The ugly sergeant came again, and took away the little boy: Griselda kissed it and blessed it, only asking that his little limbs might be kept from the wild beasts and birds; but the sergeant promised nothing, and secretly took him with great care to Bologna. The marquis was amazed at her patience; for he knew that, next to himself, she loved her children best of anything in the world. What could he do more to prove her steadfastness, and faithfulness, and patience? But there are some people who, when they have once taken a thing into their head, will stick to it as if they were bound to a stake. So this marquis made up his mind to try his wife still further. He watched her closely, but never could he find any change in her: the older she grew, the more faithful and industrious she was. Whatever he liked, she liked: there seemed but one will between them; and, God be thanked, all was for the best. But all this time the slander against Walter spread far and near; and the people said he had wickedly murdered both his children, because his wife was a poor woman. For the people had no idea what had really become of them. And they began to hate Walter instead of loving him, as they had once done; for a murderer is a hateful name. Still the marquis was so determined to test his wife, that he cared for nothing else. When Griselda’s daughter was twelve years old, Walter sent secretly to Rome, commanding that false letters, seeming to come from the Pope, should be made according to his will. These letters, or ‘bulls,’ were to give him leave to quit his first wife, for the sake of his people, and marry another woman; but they were none of them really from the Pope: they were all counterfeit and false, made by Walter’s order, to deceive Griselda. The common people did not know the difference between true letters and false; but when the tidings arrived, Griselda was very sorrowful; for she loved Walter best of all things, as he very well knew. I deeme that hir herte was ful wo;[151]judge, sad
But sche, ylike sad for evermo,alike, firm
Disposid was, this humble creature,disposed
Th’adversite of fortun al tendure.fortune, to endure
Full sure am I her heart was full of wo;
But she, as though serene for evermo,
Was ready, in her humbleness of mind,
In all adversity to be resign’d. GRISELDA’S SORROW. ‘And as a lamb sche sitteth meeke and stille,
And let this cruel sergeant doon his wille.’ Then the marquis sent to the Earl of Panik, who had married his sister, begging him to bring both his children home, openly and in great honour; but no one was to know whose children they were. He was to answer no questions— But saye the mayde schuld i-wedded be[152]should
Unto the Markys of Saluce anoon.immediately
And as this eorl was prayd, so dede he;did
For at day set he on his way is goongone
Toward Saluce, and lordes many oon,many a one
In riche array, this mayden for to guyde,
Hir yonge brother rydyng by hir syde.
Arrayed was toward hir mariage
This freisshe may, al ful of gemmes clere;maiden, gems
Hir brother, which that seven yer was of age,
Arrayed eek ful freissh in his manere;also, manner
And thus in gret noblesse and with glad chere,nobleness
Toward Saluces shaping her journay,their
Fro day to day thay ryden in her way.their
But say the maiden should, ere long, be wed
Unto the Marquis of Saluce so high.
And as this earl was pray’d to do, he did,
And started on his journey speedily
Towards Saluces, with lordly company
In rich array, this maiden fair to guide,
Her little brother riding by her side.
And this fresh maid was robed for marriage
Full of clear gems, in goodly raiment rare;
Her brother, who was seven years of age,
Was in his fashion clad all fresh and fair;
And thus, in splendour, and with joyous air,
Towards Saluces following the way,
The cavalcade advances day by day. Part V. In order to put the last trial upon Griselda, to the uttermost proof of her courage, the marquis one day, before all the household, said to her in a boisterous way— Certes, Grisildes, I had y-nough plesauncecertainly, pleasure
To have yow to my wif, for your goodnesse
And for youre trouthe, and for your obeissaunce;truth, obedience
Nought for your lignage, ne for your richesse;lineage, wealth
But now know I in verray sothfastnessetruth
That in gret lordschip, if I wel avyse,am not mistaken
Ther is gret servitude in sondry wyse.sundry wise
I may not do, as every ploughman may;
My poeple me constreignith for to takeconstrain
Another wyf, and crien day by day;
And eek the Pope, rancour for to slake,
Consentith it, that dar I undertake;dare
And trewely, thus moche I wol yow saye,much
My newe wif is comyng by the waye.
Be strong of hert, and voyde anoon hir place,heart
And thilke dower that ye broughten methat
Tak it agayn, I graunt it of my grace.
Retourneth to your fadres hous, quod he,return
No man may alway have prosperitÉ,
With even hert I rede yow endureadvise
The strok of fortune or of adventure.chance
And sche agayn answerd in paciÈnce:
My lord, quod sche, I wot, and wist alway,
How that bitwixe your magnificence
And my povertÉ, no wight can ne maynobody
Make comparisoun, it is no nay;
I ne held me neuer digne in no manereworthy, manner
To ben your wif, ne yit your chamberere.chambermaid
And in this hous, ther ye me lady made,
(The highe God take I for my witnesse,
And al-so wisly he my soule glade)cheer
I never huld me lady ne maistresse,
But humble servaunt to your worthinesse,
And ever schal, whil that my lyf may dure,life
Aboven every worldly creature.above
That ye so longe of your benignitÉbenignity
Han holden me in honour and nobleye,nobleness
Wher as I was not worthy for to be,where
That thonk I God and yow, to whom I preyethank
For-yeld it yow, ther is no more to seye.repay
Unto my fader gladly wil I wende,go
And with him duelle unto my lyves ende.
Ther I was fostred as a child ful smal,
Til I be deed my lyf ther wil I lede,
A widow clene in body, hert, and al:clean
For sith I yaf to yow my maydenhede,since, maidenhood
And am your trewe wyf, it is no drede,
God schilde such a lordes wyf to takeshield (forbid)
Another man to housbond or to make.for, for mate
And of your newe wif, God of his grace
So graunte yow wele and prosperitÉ,
For I wol gladly yelden hir my place,yield
In which that I was blisful wont to be.
For sith it liketh yow, my lord, quod sche,
That whilom were al myn hertes reste,once
That I schal gon, I wol go whan yow leste.please
But ther as ye profre me such dowayreproffer
As I ferst brought, it is wel in my mynde,
It were my wrecchid clothes, no thing faire,wretched
The whiche to me were hard now for to fynde.
O goode God! how gentil and how kynde
Ye semede by your speche and your visage,speech
That day that maked was our mariage!made
“Tis true, Griselda, I was once content
To marry you—because you were so good,
And true, and faithful, and obedient—
Not for your wealth, nor for your noble blood;
Still one thing must be clearly understood,
That in this rank and riches men so praise
There is great servitude in many ways.
“I may not do as every ploughman may:
My people urge me evermore to take
Another wife, and clamour day by day.
And now the Pope, their rancour swift to slake,
Gives glad consent to any change I make;
And more than that—I need not fear to say—
My new wife is already on her way.
Make way for her, be brave, give up her place,
And, see, the dowry that you brought to me
I will restore—I grant it of my grace.
Go back unto your father’s house,” quoth he,
“No one can always have prosperity.
With equal spirit suffer weal or woe,
The gifts of chance or luck that come and go.”
And she replied, with perfect patience:
“My lord, I know, and knew alway,” quoth she,
“Too well, that ’tween your own magnificence
And my great poverty, there cannot be
Comparison at all, and verily
I held myself unworthy every way
To be your wife—or servant—for a day.
“And in this house wherein ye made me great
(High God my witness, who shall haply set
Some coming comfort in my altered state),
Lady nor mistress never was I yet;
But humble servant to the grace I get:
This I shall be, with spirit ever strong,
More than all others, yea, my whole life long.
“And for your charity in keeping me
In dignity and honour day by day
So many years, unworthy though I be,
Now thank I God and you, to whom I pray
That He will all your graciousness repay.
Unto my father cheerfully I wend
To dwell with him from now to my life’s end.
“There I was fostered as an infant small,
There till I die my life I will lead through,
Dwell as an honest widow, heart and all.
For since I gave my girlhood unto you,
And am your wife, most loving and most true,
It were not fitting that a great lord’s wife
Should wed another husband all her life.
“And with your wife to be, God of his grace
Grant you all welfare and prosperity;
For I will yield her cheerfully my place,
In which I once so happy used to be;
For since it pleaseth you, my lord,” quoth she,
“Who ever were the dearest to my heart,
That I should go, content I will depart.
“But when you bid me take again that dower
That I first brought, it still is in my mind:
It was my wretched clothing, coarse and poor—
Rags that it were not easy now to find.
And, O good God! how gentle and how kind
You then seemed, by your words and by your look,
That day whereon the name of wife I took!” Griselda said no word of reproach to her cruel husband, except one touching remark, which he may have felt as one— “Love is not old as when that it is new.” (Love is not the same in after years as when it first comes.) Then she appeals to him in a way that must have touched a heart of stone, for she saw no sign of relenting in his face: she does not know how far his brutality will go, and will not be surprised at the last insult. My lord, ye wot that in my fadres place
Ye dede me strippe out of my pore wede,strip, attire
And richely me cladden of your grace;
To yow brought I nought elles, out of drede,else
But faith, and nakednesse, and maydenhede;maidenhood
And her agayn my clothyng I restore,
And eek my weddyng ryng for evermore.
The remenant of your jewels redy beremainder
Within your chambur, dar I saufly sayn.dare
Naked out of my fadres hous, quod sche,
I com, and naked moot I torne agayn.return
Al your pleisauns wold I folwen fayn;[153]follow gladly
But yit I hope it be not youre entente,intention
That I smocles out of your paleys wente.smockless, palace
“My lord, you know that in my father’s place
You stript me of my poor attire, for ruth:
Anew you richly clad me, of your grace.
And I brought nothing unto you, in truth,
But honesty, and poverty, and youth.
And here again your clothing I restore,
And ev’n your wedding-ring for evermore.
“The remnant of your jewels ready be
Within your chamber, I can safely say.
With nothing from my father’s house,” quoth she,
“I came, with nothing I shall go away.
In all things as you bid I will obey;
But yet I hope you will not let me go
Quite as bereft as when I came to you.” A faint sparkle of human spirit comes into her entreaty—“Ye could not do so dishonest (shameful) a thing:”— Remembre yow, myn oughne lord so deere,own
I was your wyf, though I unworthy were.
Wherfor, in guerdoun of my maydenhede,girlhood
Which that I brought, and not agayn I bere,carry away
As vouchethsauf as yeve me to my meedevouchsafe, reward
But such a smok as I was wont to were.smock, wear
“Remember yet, my lord and husband dear,
I was your wife, though I unworthy were!
“Thus, in requital of the youth I brought,
But never can take back, nor have it more,
Give me, I pray, a garment of such sort
As in those days of poverty I wore.” Walter accepts this humble claim; mark the calm dignity with which she refrains from giving way before her ‘folk.’ The smok,[154] quod he, that thou hast on thy bak,smock
Let it be stille, and ber it forth with the.
But wel unnethes thilke word he spak,scarcely, this
But went his way for routhe and for pitÉ.compassion
Byforn the folk hirselven strippith sche,herself
And in hir smok, with heed and foot al bare,head and feet
Toward hir fader house forth is she fare.went
The folk hir folwen wepyng in hir weye,follow her
And fortune ay thay cursen as thay goon;curse
But she fro wepyng kept hir eyen dreye,dry
Ne in this tyme word ne spak sche noon.none
Hir fader, that this tyding herd anoon,
Cursede the day and tyme that nature
Schoop him to ben a lyves creÄture.formed, living
For oute of doute this olde pore man
Was ever in suspect of hir mariage;suspicion
For ever he deemede, sith that it bigan,believed
That whan the lord fulfilled had his corrage,impulse
Him wolde thinke that it were disparagedisparagement
To his estate, so lowe for to lighte,
And voyden hire as sone as ever he mighte.put her away
Agayns his doughter hastily goth hegoeth
(For he by noyse of folk knew hir comyng),
And with hir olde cote, as it might be,coat
He covered hir, ful sorwfully wepynge,sorrowfully
But on hir body might he it nought bringe,
For rude was the cloth, and mor of age,coarse, more
By dayes fele than at hir mariage.many (viel)
Thus with hir fader for a certeyn space
Dwellith this flour of wifly pacience,flower
That neyther by hir wordes, ne by hir face,
Byforn the folk nor eek in her absence,also, their
Ne schewed sche that hir was doon offence;showed, done
Ne of hir highe astaat no remembrauncenor, estate
Ne hadde she, as by hir countenaunce.
“The shift,” he said, “thou hast upon thy back,
Let it remain, and bear it forth with thee.”
But scarcely that hard word for pain he spake,
And went his way for sorrow and pity.
Before the household all her robes stript she;
And in her shift, barefoot and bare of head,
Toward her father’s house forth is she sped.
The household follow, tears in every eye,
Bewailing her ill-fortune as they go;
But she from weeping kept her own eyes dry,
Nor spake a word to those who murmur’d so.
Her father heard the news awhile ago,
And sore laments the day that he was born,
To be a thing so helpless and forlorn.
For ever without doubt the poor old man
Distrusted heartily her altered rank;
Believing inly since it first began,
That when my lord had wearied of his prank,
He would conceive it far beneath his rank
To have a low-born wife, however good,
And rid himself of her whene’er he could.
Unto his daughter hastily he goes,
(For by the noise of crowds he knew her nigh),
And her old garb about her form he throws,
And covers her, with tears and many a sigh,
But could not draw it round her properly,
For coarse and shrunk the cloth was—worse for age
By many days, than at her marriage.
Thus with her father for a certain space
Did dwell this flower of wifely patience;
And neither by her speech nor by her face,
Before the folk, nor e’en in their absÈnce,
Seem’d she to feel that she endured offence.
As far as any living soul could see
She had of her past state no memory. And after all it was scarce any wonder. For in her days of wealth her spirit had always been humble and meek. No dainty fare, no foolish pomp or luxury, no semblance of splendid rank, had she allowed herself; but, ever wise and humble and firm, when reverses came she was ready to bear them. Men speak of Job’s patience; but, though some praise women little enough, no man can be as patient as a woman can—no man be faithful as a woman can. Part VI. At last the Earl of Panik arrived, whose fame had been spreading among great and small. The people had all found out that he was bringing them a new marchioness, in such pomp and state, that never before had a like splendour been seen throughout West Lombardy. The marquis, who had arranged all these things, sent for this poor innocent Griselda; and she came with humble mind and joyful face, and no proud notions in her heart, and knelt before him and asked his will. “Griselda,” he said, “my will is that the maiden whom I am to marry be received here as royally as it is possible in my house to be, and that everybody, according to his degree, shall be made thoroughly welcome and happy. I have no woman able to arrange my rooms fully to my liking, and therefore I want you to take everything in hand. You know of old my ways and my tastes; therefore, though your dress is ragged and you look very bad, you must do your duties to the very best of your power.”Griselda answered, “Not only, lord, am I glad to do anything for you, but I love you enough to work all my days to please you.” And with that worde sche gan the hous to dighte,
And tables for to sette, and beddes make:
And with that word she ’gan the house to deck,
To set the tables and to make the beds: begging all the chambermaids to hasten and hurry and shake and sweep smartly; and she, most serviceable of them all, got every chamber and the great hall garnished and adorned. Abouten undern gan this lord alighte,forenoon
That with him broughte these noble children tweye;two
For which the peple ran to se that sighte
Of hir array, so richely biseye;rich to be seen
And than at erst amonges hem thay seyeat first
That Walter was no fool, though that hem lestehe pleased
To chaunge his wyf; for it was for the beste.
For sche is fairer, as thay demen alle,deem
Than is Grisild, and more tendre of age.younger
Somewhat ere noonday did this earl alight,
Who with him brought the unknown children fair,
And all the people ran to see the sight
Of their array, resplendent as they were;
And soon the common thought was whispered there,
That Walter was no fool for being glad
To change his wife—a good exchange he had!
For she is fairer, as they notice all,
Than is Griselda, tenderer of age. And the throngs of admiring serfs stood making their light remarks, forgetful of the victim of it all, and her undeserved disgrace. They watch the fair bride and the handsome boy beside her, and every moment the marquis seems to get more popular. O stormy poeple, unsad and ever untrewe,unsteady
And undiscret and chaunging as a fane,indiscreet
Delytyng ever in rombel that is newe,noise
For lik the moone ay waxe ye and wane,
Ay ful of clappyng, dere ynough a jane,[155]chattering
Youre doom is fals, your constaunce yvil previth,judgment, ill proveth
A ful gret fool is he that on yow leevith.believeth
O stormy people, light, and ever untrue,
And undiscerning—changing as a fane,
Delighting in new noise, because ’tis new,
How like the moon do ye, too, wax and wane!
Your empty praise, like worthless coin, is vain:
False is your judgment, frail your constancy,
Who trusts to you—a full great fool is he. That is what the graver people in the city said when the populace were gazing up and down, glad for the novelty, to have a new lady in the castle. Meanwhile Griselda was working busily at everything that was needed for the feast. She was nothing abashed at her clothing, though it was rude and coarse, and somewhat torn besides. She went to the gate with the rest to salute the bride, and hurried back at once to her work.She received every one cheerfully, and in such a manner that no one had a fault to find with her; but some of them wondered who this woman was, in such shabby clothes, but who behaved with so much grace and propriety; and many praised her diligence and wisdom. When all the great lords were about to sit down to supper, Walter called to Griselda, who was working in the hall. Grisyld, quod he, as it were in his play,
How likith the my wif and hir beautÉ?do you like
Right wel, my lord, quod sche, for in good fayfaith
A fairer saugh I never noon than sche.none
I pray to God yive hir prosperitÉ;
And so hope I that he wol to yow sende
Plesaunce ynough unto your lyves ende.pleasantness
On thing biseke I yow, and warne also,[156]beseech
That ye ne prike with no tormentyngeprick
This tendre mayden, as ye han doon mo:more (others)
For she is fostrid in hir norischingefostered, nourishing
More tendrely, and to my supposyng:as I suppose
Sche couthe not adversitÉ endure,
As couthe a pore fostrid creature.could, poorly
And whan this Walter saugh hir pacience,
Hir glade cheer, and no malice at al,
And he so oft hadde doon to hir offence,
And sche ay sad, and constant as a wal,steady
Continuyng ever hir innocence overal:
This sturdy marquis gan his herte dressedirect
To rewen upon hir wyfly stedefastnesse.to pity
This is ynough, Grisilde myn, quod he,
Be now no more agast, ne yvel apayed,afraid, disappointed
I have thy faith and thy benignitÉ,goodness
As wel as ever womman was, assayedessayed
In gret estate, and pourliche[157] arrayed.poorly
Now knowe I, dere wyf, thy stedefastnesse.
And hir in armes took and gan hir kesse.kiss
And sche for wonder took of it no keepe,heed
Sche herde not what thing he to hir sayde,
Sche ferd as sche hadde stert out of a sleepe,fared, started
Til sche out of hir masidnesse abrayde.awoke
Grisild, quod he, by God that for us deyde,died
Thou art my wyf, non other I ne[158] have,
Ne never had, as God my soule save.
This is thy[159] doughter, which thou hast supposed
To be my wif: that other faithfully
Shal be myn heir, as I have ay purposed.
Thow bar hem of thy body trewely.
At Boloyne have I kept hem prively.
Tak hem agayn, for now maistow not seyemayest thou
That thou hast lorn noon of thy children tweye.lost
And folk, that other weyes han seyd of me,
I warn hem wel, that I have doon this deededone
For no malice, ne for no crueltÉ,
But for tassaye in thee thy wommanhede;to assay, womanhood
And not to slen my children (God forbede!)forbid
But for to kepe hem prively and stillequietly
Til I thy purpos knewe, and al thy wille!
“Grisild,” he said to her, as if in play,
“How seems my wife and her fair looks to thee?”
“Right well, my lord,” said she, “for in good fay
I never saw a fairer bride than she;
I pray God give you both prosperity;
And so I hope that He will ever send
You happiness enough to your lives’ end.
“One thing I pray of you, and warn beside,
That you goad not with any torturing
This tender maid—like some you have sore tried
For she is nurtured in her upbringing
More tenderly—and such a gentle thing
Might haply not adversity endure
Like one whose nurture had been hard and poor.”
And when this Walter saw her patientness,
Her cheerful mien, and malice none at all;
Though he so oft had tried her more or less,
And she still firm and constant as a wall,
Continuing ever her innocence over all:
This sturdy marquis ’gan his heart to chide,
Touch’d by her steadfast faith that never died.
“This is enough, Griselda mine,” said he,
“Be no more ill at ease, and fear no more!
I have thy faith and strength and charity
Tempted, as woman never was before,
Both in thy wealth, and in thy rags so poor.
Now do I know, dear wife, thy steadfastness:”
And clasp’d her in his arms with many a kiss.
But she for wonder took no heed of him,
She heard not any of the words he spoke,
She seemed as one that starteth from a dream
Till she from her astonishment awoke.
“Griselde,” cried he, “it was a cruel joke:
Thou art my wife, none other one I have,
Nor ever had—as God my soul shall save!
“This is thy daughter, whom thou hast supposed
To be my wife—that other faithfully
Shall be my heir, as I have long disposed;
For they are both thy children, verily.
I kept them at Bologna privily.
Take them again, thou canst not say, as once,
Thou hast lost either of thy little ones.
“And folk, who otherwise have said of me,
I warn them well that I have acted thus,
Neither in malice nor in cruelty,
Solely to prove thy patience marvellous,
And not to slay my babes (God hinder us!)
But to conceal them secretly apart
Until I learned thy purpose and thy heart!” You may fancy you see Griselda at this moment, standing in her rags before the glittering company, and her brain dazed with wondering whether this were some new freak, or the truth that brought unheard-of joy. But nature had been taxed too far, and all her courage could not bear up against the shock. Whan sche this herd, aswone doun she fallith,in a swoon
For pitous joy, and after her swownyngswooning
Sche bothe hir yonge children to hir callith,
And in hir armes, pitously wepyng,
Embraseth hem, and tendrely kissyng,
Ful lik a moder, with hir salte terestears
Sche bathide bothe hir visage and hir heres.[159]their hair
When she heard this, all senseless down she falleth,
For piteous joy—and half unconsciously
Both her young children unto her she calleth,
And in her arms, weeping so piteously,
Embraceth them, with kisses tenderly,
Full like a mother, and the tears she sheds
Bathe the fair faces and the dear loved heads. Piteous it was to hear her humble voice, thanking Walter so fervently. “Graunt mercy, lord, God thank you,” cried she, “for saving me my children. Now I care not how soon I die, since your love has come back to me. O tendre, O dere, O yonge children myne,[160]
Youre woful moder wende stedefastlybelieved
That cruel houndes or som foul vermynewild dogs
Had eten yow: but God of his mercy,
And your benigne fader tenderly
Hath doon yow kepe. And in that same stoundepreserved you, moment
Al sodeinly sche swapped doun to grounde.sank
And in hir swough so sadly holdith scheswoon, firmly
Hir children tuo, whan sche gan hem tembrace,to embrace them
That with gret sleight and gret difficultÉskill
The children from her arm they gonne arace.tear away
O! many a teer on many a pitous face
Doun ran of hem that stooden hir bisyde,down, stood, beside
Unnethe aboute hir mighte thay abyde.hardly
Waltier hir gladith, and hir sorwe slakith,cheers, sorrow
Sche rysith up abaisshed from hir traunce,abashed
And every wight hir joy and feste makith,everybody
Til sche hath caught agayn hir continaunce;countenance
Wauter hir doth so faithfully plesaunce,comforts her
That it was dayntÉ for to see the cheeredainty
Bitwix hem tuo, now thay be met in feere.company
These ladys, whan that thay hir tyme save,their, saw
Han taken hir, and into chambre goon,have
And strippen hir out of hir rude arraye,
And in a cloth of gold that brighte schon,shone
With a coroun of many a riche stooncrown, stone
Upon hir heed, they into hallo hir broughte,
And ther sche was honoured as hir oughte.she ought to be
Thus hath this pitous day a blisful ende;
For every man and womman doth his mightbest
This day in mirth and revel to despende,
Til on the welken schon the sterres brighte;welkin
For more solempne in every mannes sightestately, man’s
This feste was, and gretter of costage,greater, cost
Than was the revel of hir mariage.
“O young, O dear, O tender children mine,
Your hapless mother thought in all her wo
That cruel beasts of prey and foul vermine
Had slain you both; but God had mercy—lo!
He and your loving father will’d it so
That you should be preserved:” and said no more,
But suddenly fell fainting on the floor.
And in her swoon so closely holdeth she
Her new-found children in a strong embrace.
That those around unclasp not easily
The fingers which so firmly interlace:
O! many a tear on many a pitying face
Ran down in token of deep sympathy—
Scarce could they bear to watch her agony.
Walter consoleth her as she awaketh:
She riseth up bewildered from her trance:
Each presseth round about and merry maketh
Until she hath recovered countenance.
With kisses and with loving word and glance
Walter doth cheer her—sweet it was to see
The joy they felt—united happily.
And when they saw their time, these ladies gay
Unto a chamber led her forth with them,
And stript her out of all her rude array,
And in apparel bright with many a gem
Clad her, and, crownËd with a diadem
Upon her head, they brought her to the hall,
Where she was meetly honoured of them all.
Thus hath this piteous day a blissful end,
Till every man and woman in the rout
Striveth the day in mirth and glee to spend,
Till in the darken’d sky the stars shone out;
For greater and more sumptuous, without doubt,
This revel was—and there was more to pay—
Than the rejoicings on her marriage-day. Thus dwelt, for many years after, Walter and his wife in peace and joy; and I hope that the suffering of that day was the last Griselda had to bear at the hands of her capricious and wilful spouse. The pretty daughter Walter married to one of the greatest lords in Italy; and he then brought Griselda’s old father to dwell in peace and comfort in his own court. His son succeeded to his state and rank, and married happily, though he did not tempt and torment his wife as Walter did; for the world is not so strong as it once was, and people cannot bear such treatment now! The story is told, not that wives should imitate Griselda in humility, for it would be unbearable, even if they did; but that every one in his degree should be constant in adversity as Griselda was. For if one woman could be so submissive to a mortal man, how much more ought we to take patiently all that God sends as our lot in life. But one word before I stop! It would be hard to find in a whole city three, or even two, Griseldas nowadays. The gold in their nature is now so mixed with base metal that in any great trial the coin would sooner break than bend. Grisild is deed, and eek hir pacience,also
And bothe at oones buried in Itayle;once
For whiche I crye in open audience
No weddid man so hardy be to assayle
His wyves pacience, in hope to fynde
Grisildes, for in certeyn he schal fayle.
Dead is Griselda, and her patience,
Both buried in one grave in Italy;
So I entreat in open audience
No wedded man be rash enough to try
His own wife’s patience, in the hope to find
Griselda’s, for he’ll fail most certainly! Notes by the Way The tender pathos in Chaucer’s telling of this story (which he borrowed from Petrarch, but which is really much older than his time), cannot be excelled in any story we know of. The definite human interest running all through it points to some living Griselda, but who she was, or where she came from, no one knows. Resignation, so steadfast and so willing, was the virtue of an early time, when the husband was really a ‘lord and master’; and such submission in a woman of the present civilization would be rather mischievous than meritorious. If a modern wife cheerfully consented to the murder of her children by her spouse, she would probably be consigned to a maison de santÉ, while her husband expiated his sins on the scaffold; and if she endured other persecutions, such as Griselda did, it is to be hoped some benevolent outsider would step in, if only to prevent cruelty to animals. But it must be remembered that in the old world wives held a very different position in society, and the obedience of all the household to the lord of the castle was the chief secret of peace, discipline, and unity, as obedience to the captain of a vessel is now. We may also infer, from many hints in this Tale, the admiration felt for that kind of self-command in which people of a ruder time were so deficient. When almost everybody gave way habitually to violent emotions of all sorts, those who could rein in feeling were held in high esteem. Perhaps Walter himself may not have been wantonly cruel, but only so bewildered by these unaccustomed virtues that he could not trust their sincerity without experiments.[161] Chaucer seems to me to have devoted especial pains to the Clerk’s Tale, relating it in the same careful versification as the history of the pious Constance (Man of Law’s Tale), the holy St. Cecilia (second Nonne’s Tale), and the Prioress’s Tale—all religious, and undoubtedly written con amore. The story of Griselda winds up with real artistic power, the Clerk concluding with an ironical little song addressed to ordinary wives, so as to leave his hearers laughing, instead of depressed by the inadequate reward of patient Grizel’s virtues. This little song consists of six beautiful verses, of six lines only each, and in which every line rhymes with the corresponding line in the five other verses. Clearly great labour has been lavished on it—but I have not included it, as the ironical directions to wives to be bad wives would be probably not understood by a child, and superfluous if they were.
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