Suspecious was the defame of this man,ill-fameSuspect 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, thenBut natheles sche neyther weep ne sikede,nevertheless, sighedConformyng hir to that the marquis likede.But atte laste speke sche bigan,to speakAnd mekely sche to the sergeant preyde,So as he was a worthy gentil man,That she moste kisse hir child er that it deyde.mightAnd in hir barm[148]this litel child sche leyde,lapWith ful sad face, and gan the child to blesse,And lullyd it, and after gan it kesse.began, kissSuspicious 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’dTo 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 manShe 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!
Suspecious was the defame of this man,ill-fameSuspect 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, thenBut natheles sche neyther weep ne sikede,nevertheless, sighedConformyng hir to that the marquis likede.But atte laste speke sche bigan,to speakAnd mekely sche to the sergeant preyde,So as he was a worthy gentil man,That she moste kisse hir child er that it deyde.mightAnd in hir barm[148]this litel child sche leyde,lapWith ful sad face, and gan the child to blesse,And lullyd it, and after gan it kesse.began, kissSuspicious 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’dTo 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 manShe 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 fewyears 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 notBut as yow list: nought greveth me at al,pleaseThough that my doughter and my sone be slaynAt your comaundement: this is to sayn,sayI have not had no part of children twayne,But first syknes, and after wo and payne.sicknessYe ben oure lord: doth with your owne thingbe, masterRight as yow list: axith no red of me;ask, adviceFor as I left at hom al my clothingWhan I first com to yow, right so, quod sche,Left I my wille and al my liberte,And took your clothing; wherfor, I yow preyeyouDoth 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 slainAt your commandment: nor will I complainThat 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 thineE’en as thou wilt: ask not assent of me;—For as I left at home all that was mineWhen I came first to thee, right so,” quoth she,“Left I my will and all my liberty,And took new habits: wherefore, now, I prayDo but thy pleasure, and I will obey.”
I have, quod sche, sayd thus, and ever schal,I wol no thing, ne nil no thing certayn,will notBut as yow list: nought greveth me at al,pleaseThough that my doughter and my sone be slaynAt your comaundement: this is to sayn,sayI have not had no part of children twayne,But first syknes, and after wo and payne.sicknessYe ben oure lord: doth with your owne thingbe, masterRight as yow list: axith no red of me;ask, adviceFor as I left at hom al my clothingWhan I first com to yow, right so, quod sche,Left I my wille and al my liberte,And took your clothing; wherfor, I yow preyeyouDoth 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 slainAt your commandment: nor will I complainThat 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 thineE’en as thou wilt: ask not assent of me;—For as I left at home all that was mineWhen I came first to thee, right so,” quoth she,“Left I my will and all my liberty,And took new habits: wherefore, now, I prayDo 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, sadBut sche, ylike sad for evermo,alike, firmDisposid was, this humble creature,disposedTh’adversite of fortun al tendure.fortune, to endureFull 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.
I deeme that hir herte was ful wo;[151]judge, sadBut sche, ylike sad for evermo,alike, firmDisposid was, this humble creature,disposedTh’adversite of fortun al tendure.fortune, to endureFull 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.
Larger Image
GRISELDA’S SORROW.
‘And as a lamb sche sitteth meeke and stille,And let this cruel sergeant doon his wille.’
‘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]shouldUnto the Markys of Saluce anoon.immediatelyAnd as this eorl was prayd, so dede he;didFor at day set he on his way is goongoneToward Saluce, and lordes many oon,many a oneIn riche array, this mayden for to guyde,Hir yonge brother rydyng by hir syde.Arrayed was toward hir mariageThis freisshe may, al ful of gemmes clere;maiden, gemsHir brother, which that seven yer was of age,Arrayed eek ful freissh in his manere;also, mannerAnd thus in gret noblesse and with glad chere,noblenessToward Saluces shaping her journay,theirFro day to day thay ryden in her way.theirBut say the maiden should, ere long, be wedUnto the Marquis of Saluce so high.And as this earl was pray’d to do, he did,And started on his journey speedilyTowards Saluces, with lordly companyIn rich array, this maiden fair to guide,Her little brother riding by her side.And this fresh maid was robed for marriageFull 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.
But saye the mayde schuld i-wedded be[152]shouldUnto the Markys of Saluce anoon.immediatelyAnd as this eorl was prayd, so dede he;didFor at day set he on his way is goongoneToward Saluce, and lordes many oon,many a oneIn riche array, this mayden for to guyde,Hir yonge brother rydyng by hir syde.Arrayed was toward hir mariageThis freisshe may, al ful of gemmes clere;maiden, gemsHir brother, which that seven yer was of age,Arrayed eek ful freissh in his manere;also, mannerAnd thus in gret noblesse and with glad chere,noblenessToward Saluces shaping her journay,theirFro day to day thay ryden in her way.theirBut say the maiden should, ere long, be wedUnto the Marquis of Saluce so high.And as this earl was pray’d to do, he did,And started on his journey speedilyTowards Saluces, with lordly companyIn rich array, this maiden fair to guide,Her little brother riding by her side.And this fresh maid was robed for marriageFull 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.
Inorder 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, pleasureTo have yow to my wif, for your goodnesseAnd for youre trouthe, and for your obeissaunce;truth, obedienceNought for your lignage, ne for your richesse;lineage, wealthBut now know I in verray sothfastnessetruthThat in gret lordschip, if I wel avyse,am not mistakenTher is gret servitude in sondry wyse.sundry wiseI may not do, as every ploughman may;My poeple me constreignith for to takeconstrainAnother wyf, and crien day by day;And eek the Pope, rancour for to slake,Consentith it, that dar I undertake;dareAnd trewely, thus moche I wol yow saye,muchMy newe wif is comyng by the waye.Be strong of hert, and voyde anoon hir place,heartAnd thilke dower that ye broughten methatTak it agayn, I graunt it of my grace.Retourneth to your fadres hous, quod he,returnNo man may alway have prosperité,With even hert I rede yow endureadviseThe strok of fortune or of adventure.chanceAnd sche agayn answerd in paciènce:My lord, quod sche, I wot, and wist alway,How that bitwixe your magnificenceAnd my poverté, no wight can ne maynobodyMake comparisoun, it is no nay;I ne held me neuer digne in no manereworthy, mannerTo ben your wif, ne yit your chamberere.chambermaidAnd in this hous, ther ye me lady made,(The highe God take I for my witnesse,And al-so wisly he my soule glade)cheerI never huld me lady ne maistresse,But humble servaunt to your worthinesse,And ever schal, whil that my lyf may dure,lifeAboven every worldly creature.aboveThat ye so longe of your benignitébenignityHan holden me in honour and nobleye,noblenessWher as I was not worthy for to be,whereThat thonk I God and yow, to whom I preyethankFor-yeld it yow, ther is no more to seye.repayUnto my fader gladly wil I wende,goAnd 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:cleanFor sith I yaf to yow my maydenhede,since, maidenhoodAnd 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 mateAnd of your newe wif, God of his graceSo graunte yow wele and prosperité,For I wol gladly yelden hir my place,yieldIn which that I was blisful wont to be.For sith it liketh yow, my lord, quod sche,That whilom were al myn hertes reste,onceThat I schal gon, I wol go whan yow leste.pleaseBut ther as ye profre me such dowayreprofferAs I ferst brought, it is wel in my mynde,It were my wrecchid clothes, no thing faire,wretchedThe whiche to me were hard now for to fynde.O goode God! how gentil and how kyndeYe semede by your speche and your visage,speechThat day that maked was our mariage!made“Tis true, Griselda, I was once contentTo 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 praiseThere is great servitude in many ways.“I may not do as every ploughman may:My people urge me evermore to takeAnother 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 meI 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 magnificenceAnd my great poverty, there cannot beComparison at all, and verilyI held myself unworthy every wayTo be your wife—or servant—for a day.“And in this house wherein ye made me great(High God my witness, who shall haply setSome 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 meIn dignity and honour day by daySo many years, unworthy though I be,Now thank I God and you, to whom I prayThat He will all your graciousness repay.Unto my father cheerfully I wendTo 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 wifeShould wed another husband all her life.“And with your wife to be, God of his graceGrant 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 dowerThat 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 kindYou then seemed, by your words and by your look,That day whereon the name of wife I took!”
Certes, Grisildes, I had y-nough plesauncecertainly, pleasureTo have yow to my wif, for your goodnesseAnd for youre trouthe, and for your obeissaunce;truth, obedienceNought for your lignage, ne for your richesse;lineage, wealthBut now know I in verray sothfastnessetruthThat in gret lordschip, if I wel avyse,am not mistakenTher is gret servitude in sondry wyse.sundry wiseI may not do, as every ploughman may;My poeple me constreignith for to takeconstrainAnother wyf, and crien day by day;And eek the Pope, rancour for to slake,Consentith it, that dar I undertake;dareAnd trewely, thus moche I wol yow saye,muchMy newe wif is comyng by the waye.Be strong of hert, and voyde anoon hir place,heartAnd thilke dower that ye broughten methatTak it agayn, I graunt it of my grace.Retourneth to your fadres hous, quod he,returnNo man may alway have prosperité,With even hert I rede yow endureadviseThe strok of fortune or of adventure.chanceAnd sche agayn answerd in paciènce:My lord, quod sche, I wot, and wist alway,How that bitwixe your magnificenceAnd my poverté, no wight can ne maynobodyMake comparisoun, it is no nay;I ne held me neuer digne in no manereworthy, mannerTo ben your wif, ne yit your chamberere.chambermaidAnd in this hous, ther ye me lady made,(The highe God take I for my witnesse,And al-so wisly he my soule glade)cheerI never huld me lady ne maistresse,But humble servaunt to your worthinesse,And ever schal, whil that my lyf may dure,lifeAboven every worldly creature.aboveThat ye so longe of your benignitébenignityHan holden me in honour and nobleye,noblenessWher as I was not worthy for to be,whereThat thonk I God and yow, to whom I preyethankFor-yeld it yow, ther is no more to seye.repayUnto my fader gladly wil I wende,goAnd 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:cleanFor sith I yaf to yow my maydenhede,since, maidenhoodAnd 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 mateAnd of your newe wif, God of his graceSo graunte yow wele and prosperité,For I wol gladly yelden hir my place,yieldIn which that I was blisful wont to be.For sith it liketh yow, my lord, quod sche,That whilom were al myn hertes reste,onceThat I schal gon, I wol go whan yow leste.pleaseBut ther as ye profre me such dowayreprofferAs I ferst brought, it is wel in my mynde,It were my wrecchid clothes, no thing faire,wretchedThe whiche to me were hard now for to fynde.O goode God! how gentil and how kyndeYe semede by your speche and your visage,speechThat day that maked was our mariage!made“Tis true, Griselda, I was once contentTo 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 praiseThere is great servitude in many ways.“I may not do as every ploughman may:My people urge me evermore to takeAnother 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 meI 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 magnificenceAnd my great poverty, there cannot beComparison at all, and verilyI held myself unworthy every wayTo be your wife—or servant—for a day.“And in this house wherein ye made me great(High God my witness, who shall haply setSome 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 meIn dignity and honour day by daySo many years, unworthy though I be,Now thank I God and you, to whom I prayThat He will all your graciousness repay.Unto my father cheerfully I wendTo 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 wifeShould wed another husband all her life.“And with your wife to be, God of his graceGrant 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 dowerThat 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 kindYou 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 placeYe dede me strippe out of my pore wede,strip, attireAnd richely me cladden of your grace;To yow brought I nought elles, out of drede,elseBut faith, and nakednesse, and maydenhede;maidenhoodAnd her agayn my clothyng I restore,And eek my weddyng ryng for evermore.The remenant of your jewels redy beremainderWithin your chambur, dar I saufly sayn.dareNaked out of my fadres hous, quod sche,I com, and naked moot I torne agayn.returnAl your pleisauns wold I folwen fayn;[153]follow gladlyBut yit I hope it be not youre entente,intentionThat I smocles out of your paleys wente.smockless, palace“My lord, you know that in my father’s placeYou 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 beWithin 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 goQuite as bereft as when I came to you.”
My lord, ye wot that in my fadres placeYe dede me strippe out of my pore wede,strip, attireAnd richely me cladden of your grace;To yow brought I nought elles, out of drede,elseBut faith, and nakednesse, and maydenhede;maidenhoodAnd her agayn my clothyng I restore,And eek my weddyng ryng for evermore.The remenant of your jewels redy beremainderWithin your chambur, dar I saufly sayn.dareNaked out of my fadres hous, quod sche,I com, and naked moot I torne agayn.returnAl your pleisauns wold I folwen fayn;[153]follow gladlyBut yit I hope it be not youre entente,intentionThat I smocles out of your paleys wente.smockless, palace“My lord, you know that in my father’s placeYou 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 beWithin 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 goQuite 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,ownI was your wyf, though I unworthy were.Wherfor, in guerdoun of my maydenhede,girlhoodWhich that I brought, and not agayn I bere,carry awayAs vouchethsauf as yeve me to my meedevouchsafe, rewardBut 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 sortAs in those days of poverty I wore.”
Remembre yow, myn oughne lord so deere,ownI was your wyf, though I unworthy were.Wherfor, in guerdoun of my maydenhede,girlhoodWhich that I brought, and not agayn I bere,carry awayAs vouchethsauf as yeve me to my meedevouchsafe, rewardBut 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 sortAs 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,smockLet it be stille, and ber it forth with the.But wel unnethes thilke word he spak,scarcely, thisBut went his way for routhe and for pité.compassionByforn the folk hirselven strippith sche,herselfAnd in hir smok, with heed and foot al bare,head and feetToward hir fader house forth is she fare.wentThe folk hir folwen wepyng in hir weye,follow herAnd fortune ay thay cursen as thay goon;curseBut she fro wepyng kept hir eyen dreye,dryNe in this tyme word ne spak sche noon.noneHir fader, that this tyding herd anoon,Cursede the day and tyme that natureSchoop him to ben a lyves creäture.formed, livingFor oute of doute this olde pore manWas ever in suspect of hir mariage;suspicionFor ever he deemede, sith that it bigan,believedThat whan the lord fulfilled had his corrage,impulseHim wolde thinke that it were disparagedisparagementTo his estate, so lowe for to lighte,And voyden hire as sone as ever he mighte.put her awayAgayns his doughter hastily goth hegoeth(For he by noyse of folk knew hir comyng),And with hir olde cote, as it might be,coatHe covered hir, ful sorwfully wepynge,sorrowfullyBut on hir body might he it nought bringe,For rude was the cloth, and mor of age,coarse, moreBy dayes fele than at hir mariage.many (viel)Thus with hir fader for a certeyn spaceDwellith this flour of wifly pacience,flowerThat neyther by hir wordes, ne by hir face,Byforn the folk nor eek in her absence,also, theirNe schewed sche that hir was doon offence;showed, doneNe of hir highe astaat no remembrauncenor, estateNe 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 manDistrusted 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 rankTo 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 ageBy many days, than at her marriage.Thus with her father for a certain spaceDid 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 seeShe had of her past state no memory.
The smok,[154]quod he, that thou hast on thy bak,smockLet it be stille, and ber it forth with the.But wel unnethes thilke word he spak,scarcely, thisBut went his way for routhe and for pité.compassionByforn the folk hirselven strippith sche,herselfAnd in hir smok, with heed and foot al bare,head and feetToward hir fader house forth is she fare.wentThe folk hir folwen wepyng in hir weye,follow herAnd fortune ay thay cursen as thay goon;curseBut she fro wepyng kept hir eyen dreye,dryNe in this tyme word ne spak sche noon.noneHir fader, that this tyding herd anoon,Cursede the day and tyme that natureSchoop him to ben a lyves creäture.formed, livingFor oute of doute this olde pore manWas ever in suspect of hir mariage;suspicionFor ever he deemede, sith that it bigan,believedThat whan the lord fulfilled had his corrage,impulseHim wolde thinke that it were disparagedisparagementTo his estate, so lowe for to lighte,And voyden hire as sone as ever he mighte.put her awayAgayns his doughter hastily goth hegoeth(For he by noyse of folk knew hir comyng),And with hir olde cote, as it might be,coatHe covered hir, ful sorwfully wepynge,sorrowfullyBut on hir body might he it nought bringe,For rude was the cloth, and mor of age,coarse, moreBy dayes fele than at hir mariage.many (viel)Thus with hir fader for a certeyn spaceDwellith this flour of wifly pacience,flowerThat neyther by hir wordes, ne by hir face,Byforn the folk nor eek in her absence,also, theirNe schewed sche that hir was doon offence;showed, doneNe of hir highe astaat no remembrauncenor, estateNe 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 manDistrusted 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 rankTo 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 ageBy many days, than at her marriage.Thus with her father for a certain spaceDid 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 seeShe 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.
Atlast 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 dressisragged 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:
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,forenoonThat with him broughte these noble children tweye;twoFor which the peple ran to se that sighteOf hir array, so richely biseye;rich to be seenAnd than at erst amonges hem thay seyeat firstThat Walter was no fool, though that hem lestehe pleasedTo chaunge his wyf; for it was for the beste.For sche is fairer, as thay demen alle,deemThan is Grisild, and more tendre of age.youngerSomewhat ere noonday did this earl alight,Who with him brought the unknown children fair,And all the people ran to see the sightOf their array, resplendent as they were;And soon the common thought was whispered there,That Walter was no fool for being gladTo change his wife—a good exchange he had!For she is fairer, as they notice all,Than is Griselda, tenderer of age.
Abouten undern gan this lord alighte,forenoonThat with him broughte these noble children tweye;twoFor which the peple ran to se that sighteOf hir array, so richely biseye;rich to be seenAnd than at erst amonges hem thay seyeat firstThat Walter was no fool, though that hem lestehe pleasedTo chaunge his wyf; for it was for the beste.For sche is fairer, as thay demen alle,deemThan is Grisild, and more tendre of age.youngerSomewhat ere noonday did this earl alight,Who with him brought the unknown children fair,And all the people ran to see the sightOf their array, resplendent as they were;And soon the common thought was whispered there,That Walter was no fool for being gladTo 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,unsteadyAnd undiscret and chaunging as a fane,indiscreetDelytyng ever in rombel that is newe,noiseFor lik the moone ay waxe ye and wane,Ay ful of clappyng, dere ynough a jane,[155]chatteringYoure doom is fals, your constaunce yvil previth,judgment, ill provethA ful gret fool is he that on yow leevith.believethO 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.
O stormy poeple, unsad and ever untrewe,unsteadyAnd undiscret and chaunging as a fane,indiscreetDelytyng ever in rombel that is newe,noiseFor lik the moone ay waxe ye and wane,Ay ful of clappyng, dere ynough a jane,[155]chatteringYoure doom is fals, your constaunce yvil previth,judgment, ill provethA ful gret fool is he that on yow leevith.believethO 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 likeRight wel, my lord, quod sche, for in good fayfaithA fairer saugh I never noon than sche.noneI pray to God yive hir prosperité;And so hope I that he wol to yow sendePlesaunce ynough unto your lyves ende.pleasantnessOn thing biseke I yow, and warne also,[156]beseechThat ye ne prike with no tormentyngeprickThis tendre mayden, as ye han doon mo:more (others)For she is fostrid in hir norischingefostered, nourishingMore tendrely, and to my supposyng:as I supposeSche couthe not adversité endure,As couthe a pore fostrid creature.could, poorlyAnd 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,steadyContinuyng ever hir innocence overal:This sturdy marquis gan his herte dressedirectTo rewen upon hir wyfly stedefastnesse.to pityThis is ynough, Grisilde myn, quod he,Be now no more agast, ne yvel apayed,afraid, disappointedI have thy faith and thy benignité,goodnessAs wel as ever womman was, assayedessayedIn gret estate, and pourliche[157]arrayed.poorlyNow knowe I, dere wyf, thy stedefastnesse.And hir in armes took and gan hir kesse.kissAnd sche for wonder took of it no keepe,heedSche herde not what thing he to hir sayde,Sche ferd as sche hadde stert out of a sleepe,fared, startedTil sche out of hir masidnesse abrayde.awokeGrisild, quod he, by God that for us deyde,diedThou 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 supposedTo be my wif: that other faithfullyShal 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 thouThat thou hast lorn noon of thy children tweye.lostAnd folk, that other weyes han seyd of me,I warn hem wel, that I have doon this deededoneFor no malice, ne for no cruelté,But for tassaye in thee thy wommanhede;to assay, womanhoodAnd not to slen my children (God forbede!)forbidBut for to kepe hem prively and stillequietlyTil 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 fayI never saw a fairer bride than she;I pray God give you both prosperity;And so I hope that He will ever sendYou happiness enough to your lives’ end.“One thing I pray of you, and warn beside,That you goad not with any torturingThis tender maid—like some you have sore triedFor she is nurtured in her upbringingMore tenderly—and such a gentle thingMight haply not adversity endureLike 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 charityTempted, 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 dreamTill 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 supposedTo be my wife—that other faithfullyShall 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 apartUntil I learned thy purpose and thy heart!”
Grisyld, quod he, as it were in his play,How likith the my wif and hir beauté?do you likeRight wel, my lord, quod sche, for in good fayfaithA fairer saugh I never noon than sche.noneI pray to God yive hir prosperité;And so hope I that he wol to yow sendePlesaunce ynough unto your lyves ende.pleasantnessOn thing biseke I yow, and warne also,[156]beseechThat ye ne prike with no tormentyngeprickThis tendre mayden, as ye han doon mo:more (others)For she is fostrid in hir norischingefostered, nourishingMore tendrely, and to my supposyng:as I supposeSche couthe not adversité endure,As couthe a pore fostrid creature.could, poorlyAnd 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,steadyContinuyng ever hir innocence overal:This sturdy marquis gan his herte dressedirectTo rewen upon hir wyfly stedefastnesse.to pityThis is ynough, Grisilde myn, quod he,Be now no more agast, ne yvel apayed,afraid, disappointedI have thy faith and thy benignité,goodnessAs wel as ever womman was, assayedessayedIn gret estate, and pourliche[157]arrayed.poorlyNow knowe I, dere wyf, thy stedefastnesse.And hir in armes took and gan hir kesse.kissAnd sche for wonder took of it no keepe,heedSche herde not what thing he to hir sayde,Sche ferd as sche hadde stert out of a sleepe,fared, startedTil sche out of hir masidnesse abrayde.awokeGrisild, quod he, by God that for us deyde,diedThou 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 supposedTo be my wif: that other faithfullyShal 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 thouThat thou hast lorn noon of thy children tweye.lostAnd folk, that other weyes han seyd of me,I warn hem wel, that I have doon this deededoneFor no malice, ne for no cruelté,But for tassaye in thee thy wommanhede;to assay, womanhoodAnd not to slen my children (God forbede!)forbidBut for to kepe hem prively and stillequietlyTil 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 fayI never saw a fairer bride than she;I pray God give you both prosperity;And so I hope that He will ever sendYou happiness enough to your lives’ end.“One thing I pray of you, and warn beside,That you goad not with any torturingThis tender maid—like some you have sore triedFor she is nurtured in her upbringingMore tenderly—and such a gentle thingMight haply not adversity endureLike 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 charityTempted, 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 dreamTill 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 supposedTo be my wife—that other faithfullyShall 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 apartUntil 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.