Indeed, Petrarch's character presents us with strange contrasts. He who loved travel so much is constantly writing about the joys of country life; constantly seen in the gay and often licentious courts of princes, he wrote a treatise in praise of the solitary life; receiving his living from the church and naturally religious, many of his acts were contrary to both religion and morality.
And yet Petrarch was not a hypocrite. No one can doubt his sincerity; these things are only the outward expression of that struggle which was constantly going on in his heart. Like St. Paul, he seemed always to be crying out, "The good that I would I do not, but the evil which I would not, that I do."
The latter part of his life was thus spent in ever-increasing sadness. In 1347 his friend, Colonna, died; in 1348, Laura; in 1347 his high hopes concerning the restoration of the ancient glory of the Roman Republic by Rienzi, the "last of the tribunes," were suddenly dashed by the fall and death of the latter. Henceforth Petrarch spent his life wandering from city to city, from court to court, surrounded by an aureole of glory, yet never at rest, except when he retired to the quiet seclusion of Vaucluse.
In 1370 he went to the university town of Padua, then the center of an active intellectual life. In the spring of the same year he started for Rome, in response to an invitation of the pope, but fell so grievously ill at Ferrara that he gave up his journey and settled down at Arquà, a village not far from Padua, where he died July 18, 1374. He was found dead in his library, bending over a folio volume.
As may be supposed from Petrarch's enthusiasm for the Latin authors, most of his own works were written in that language. It is a generous trait of literary and scholarly, as well as of religious, enthusiasts that they are not content to receive the treasures of art and learning, but feel impelled to impart their own joys to others. Petrarch was not only an eager student, but devoted his life to making known to others the riches and glory of ancient Rome. All this he does in his numerous Latin works. These include, in poetry, bucolics and eclogues, imitated from Vergil; poetic epistles, imitated from Horace; and especially his "Africa," from which he expected immortality, an epic poem on the life of Scipio Africanus. Of especial importance in the development of the Renaissance and the Revival of Learning are his prose Latin works. Chief among these we may mention his history of Illustrious Men; his moral and religious tractates—The Remedy of Fortune, the Solitary Life; and especially his letters, six hundred in number, written in a Latin style which infinitely surpassed anything produced till then, and which founded a branch of literature which was most popular throughout all the Renaissance.
For our purpose here, however, we can only discuss in detail Petrarch's Italian poetry—he wrote no Italian prose. It is this which gives him his place in literature as the first great lyric poet of modern times.
We have seen that Italian lyrical poetry began in Sicily, and that, carried thence to Bologna and Tuscany, it formed a new school, which found its highest expression in Dante. Petrarch once more founds a new school of lyrics, which, while still in some respects recalling the writings of his predecessors, is yet in spirit far different from them. With him poetry is no longer a matter of chivalrous ideals, as with the troubadours, or of symbolism and philosophy, as with Guido Guinicelli and Dante, but the expression of his own genuine feelings. His Laura is not like the Beatrice of the Divine Comedy, a mere abstraction, a personification of virtue and symbol of religion, but is a woman of flesh and blood, beautiful and virtuous, but not ethereal and mystical—a woman, in fact,
In his songs, then, Petrarch describes real things—the beauty of Laura in all its details; her coldness and his suffering; and especially the conflicting feelings which tormented his soul. In his subjectivity, his psychological analysis of feelings, his use of poetry to express his own mental experiences; in his lovely descriptions of nature; and especially in his melancholy, the far-off anticipation of the "Weltschmerz,"[19] Petrarch is indeed the first modern lyrical poet.
He himself confidently expected immortality from his Latin works, which, alas! for the vanity of human expectations, are now forgotten by all except special students. He apparently looked with contempt on his Italian lyrics, yet this was only affectation, for even in his later years he carefully revised them. These songs and sonnets are still unsurpassed in Italian literature. Many, it is true, are artificial, and on account of puns, antitheses, and conceits are repugnant to modern taste; yet the large number of his best poems are exquisite pictures of womanly beauty, with a charming landscape as a background, all enveloped in an atmosphere of lovely poetry, full of tenderness, pathos, and genuine feeling. Above all, they are written in a style and with a harmony of numbers unknown till then and not surpassed since.
Petrarch's Italian poetry consists of some 375 sonnets, ballads, and songs (of which the vast majority are sonnets), and in the twelve chapters, or books, of the so-called Triumphs. These are, with but few exceptions, consecrated to the story of his love for a certain woman named Laura, concerning whose actual existence as much contest has been waged as over that of Beatrice. It seems now pretty definitely ascertained that Laura was no mere fancy-picture, but a real being. She was the daughter of Audibert de Noves, and the wife of Ugo de Sade, to whom she bore eleven children. She died April 6, 1348, probably of the pest, which then was raging. Petrarch saw her for the first time April 6, 1327, and for twenty-one years worshiped her from a respectful distance. There is little story or event in all these sonnets. Petrarch's love is not returned by Laura, he makes no progress in her affections, and his poems are devoted for the most part to descriptions of her beauty, coldness, and indifference, and his own state of wretchedness.
Among the many sonnets descriptive of Laura's beauty we may take the following, in which she is declared to be the most perfect example of Nature's handiwork:
In another sonnet he tells how he was affected the first time he saw her:
Yet Laura is not only beautiful, but good; she unites in herself the highest excellencies of virtue as well as of beauty:
Petrarch not only gives general descriptions of the beauty of his lady and of its effect, as his predecessors had done, but he gives over and over again details thereof, especially her eyes and hair:
He is especially fond of describing the scenes where she is, thus combining with her own charms those of lovely nature. Thus he sees her on the banks of clear streams, sitting on the green grass, with blossoms falling upon her from the trees in springtime, as in the following lines from one of his most beautiful songs:
Yet, in spite of all her beauty, he is not happy; the thought of her never leaves him. When absent from her he is most miserable:
Above all, his torment is increased by the contest between his religious feelings and his love, which, earthly as it was, seemed to be inconsistent with his duty as a Christian. Yet he cannot tear his heart away from the object of his affection. Hence arises a constant warring of the flesh against the spirit, and a vacillation which finds expression in sentiments diametrically opposite. Thus at times he declares that his love for Laura is a blessing to him, leading him to a virtuous and religious life:
Then comes another mood, in which his love seems sinful and he prays God to lead him to a better life:
This state of his mind, divided against itself, finds its best expression in the song which is regarded as one of the most beautiful of his poems. In the various strophes conflicting sentiments arise, develop, and reach a climax, only to be overthrown by a sudden revulsion of feeling; fame, happiness, the sweetness of love beckon the poet on; then comes the chilling thought of death to show that all things earthly are nothing but vanity. Unfortunately this song is too long to be quoted here entire. We give the first strophe and the refrain:
The finest of Petrarch's sonnets are those written after the death of Laura. With this dread event he loses all joy in life; thought of her beauty returns softened by memory and the lapse of time:
Yet, in his affliction there is a certain comfort, for now that she is dead she seems no longer cold to him, and he often sees and converses with her in heaven:
But, when spring returns, it brings a renewal of his grief:
His only comfort now is in thinking that he, too, must soon die:
Weary of life, now that he is left alone, he devotes himself to God; he directs all his thought to heaven, where Laura awaits and beckons him:
His love thus purified and his thoughts now turned to God alone, the poet awaits in resignation the coming of the inevitable hour of death. The "Book of Songs and Sonnets," as his Italian poetry may be called, ends in a beautiful hymn to the Virgin Mary, in which the poet breathes forth all his chastened sorrow and hopes. From this we select the following lines:
SUMMARY AND QUESTIONS FOR REVIEW
Difference between the Medieval and Modern World—Dante's position between the two—Petrarch, 1304-74, the real founder of modern civilization—Latin works—Fame rests on his Italian poetry—How this differed from the Sicilian and Tuscan schools—Laura and Petrarch's love—Her influence upon his life.
1. How does the medieval world differ from the modern?
2. Why is Petrarch called the founder of modern civilization?
3. Give a brief sketch of his life.
4. What kind of character did he have?
5. Name some of his Latin works.
6. What were his services to classical scholarship?
7. On what does his fame as a poet rest?
8. How does his lyrical poetry differ from that of his predecessors?
9. Tell the story of his love for Laura, as seen in his poetry.
10. How is his character illustrated in his poetry?
BIBLIOGRAPHY
A collection of translations of Petrarch's Italian poems, together with an extended life of the poet, is published in the Bohn Library. Very important are the Latin letters of Petrarch; an English translation of a number of these was published a short time ago by Putnam & Co., of New York.
[19] Best translated literally, "world pain."
BOCCACCIO
We have hitherto discussed the development of poetry almost exclusively; and this is justifiable, for in Italy, as in all other countries, the development of prose as a form of literature comes after that of poetry. Petrarch wrote no prose in Italian; and although Dante wrote his Banquet and, in part, his New Life in prose, yet the former is couched in scholastic phraseology and the prose portion of the latter is of small compass. Giovanni Boccaccio, although not so great a poet as Dante, or so great a scholar and master of form as Petrarch, is yet of high importance in the history of Italian literature from a double point of view, as the first great writer of prose and the founder of the modern novel.
We can only give here a brief outline of his life and character, before passing on to his works. He was born in Paris in 1313, the son of a Florentine merchant and a young French gentlewoman. Going to Florence with his father, he was sent to school and is said to have written verses before the age of seven. His father, a merchant himself, wished his son to follow the same career, and at the age of fourteen the boy was taken to Naples with this purpose in view. In this "great, sinful city" Boccaccio passed his youth, at first in business, then in the study of law, both of which, however, he heartily disliked. Making the acquaintance of some well-known scholars, he was inducted into a love for study, and resolved to devote himself to a literary career.
About 1340 he left Naples and returned to Florence, which henceforth became his residence, although he was frequently absent from it on matters of business and pleasure. For he soon became known as a scholar and poet, and, in accordance with the customs of the times, he was honored by his city by being sent on frequent embassies. In this capacity he went, in 1350, to Ravenna, to the daughter of Dante; in 1354, to Pope Innocent VI., at Avignon; and in 1351, to Petrarch at Padua, in order to induce the great poet and scholar to reside in Florence. This meeting with the great apostle of the New Learning was an important event in Boccaccio's life, who from henceforth became an enthusiastic admirer of Petrarch. He plunged still more eagerly into the study of classic antiquity; and although not so great a scholar as Petrarch, he accomplished some things which the latter had not been able to do. Thus he learned Greek, imperfectly, however, and introduced to the western world a knowledge of that language (unknown to the Middle Ages) by bringing Leontius Pilatus to Florence as a professor in the university. It was at the dictation of the latter that Boccaccio wrote down his Latin translation of the Homeric poems, which, worthless as it now seems, then excited widespread admiration.
Boccaccio differed from Petrarch in being an ardent admirer and indefatigable student of Dante. Petrarch had once declared that he had never read the Divine Comedy. The influence of Dante on Boccaccio is seen on almost every page of his poetry, and it was in reward of his services in promoting the study of the former's works that in 1373 he was invited by Florence to lecture on the Divine Comedy (for the first time in Italy) in the university.
Boccaccio's character was in many respects an attractive one; he was honest, sincere, and modest; a faithful friend, a lover of true literature; and, above all, of a lovable and gentle disposition; Giovanni della Tranquillità, his friends called him—"John of the quiet mind," as we may translate it. The gravest accusation made against him, and one, alas! only too well founded, is his immorality. In his early years, and even later in life, his manners were light, and the effects thereof are too often reflected in his books. Before condemning him too harshly, however, we must bear in mind the low state of morals that marked all society at that time. Toward the end of his life Boccaccio became converted by a strange event. It seems that a certain Carthusian monk, Pietro de' Petroni—who, by the austerity of his life and his religious exaltation, had won a reputation for holiness—died at Siena, May 29, 1361. Fourteen days before his death he entered into a trance, in which he had a vision of the saints in heaven and the damned in hell. When he awoke he declared that he had been commanded by Christ to warn a number of distinguished men of the error of their ways. Among these was Boccaccio. Being too sick to go himself, Petroni sent his disciple, Gioachino Ciani, to fulfill his commission. The latter came to Florence, told Boccaccio of his master's vision, and then, in fiery language, urged him to see to the salvation of his soul, and to repudiate his immoral writings, else he would soon die and his soul be lost forever. Boccaccio was deeply affected by this strange embassy. In the first moments of depression he resolved to give up all study, burn his books, write no more, and spend the rest of life in religious exercises. From this violent action, however, he was saved by a sensible letter from Petrarch. Yet the effect did not pass away. Ever after this he was more serious and thought more of religious matters. He lost his former zest in life; his gaiety and serenity of temper became clouded. After a youth of enjoyment the evening of life came on gray and cold.
He died December 21, 1375, in Certaldo, not far from Florence.
Boccaccio, like Petrarch, wrote much in Latin, chief among such writings being the historical or biographical compilations on Illustrious Women and the Vicissitudes of Great Men, and especially his Genealogy of the Gods, which for one hundred years and more became the standard hand-book of mythology. In Italian poetry he was far more voluminous than Petrarch. Among the best known of his poems are the Vision of Love; Filostrato, which tells the story of Troilus and Cressida, afterwards imitated by Chaucer and Shakespeare; and the Theseid, imitated by Chaucer in his Knight's Tale. His Ninfale Fiesolana describes the beautiful suburbs of Florence, while his pastoral poem, Ameto, is the first example of that popular branch of poetry, which found its highest development in Sannazaro's Arcadia, Tasso's Aminta, and Guarini's Pastor Fido.
All these, however, are now almost forgotten. The one book by which Boccaccio is known to-day, not only in Italy, but the world over, is his Decameron, a collection of short stories in prose. In this book he becomes epoch-making in a double sense, for it begins both Italian prose and the modern novel. The name of the book is composed of two Greek words, meaning "ten days," and is explained by the fact that there are one hundred stories in all, told ten at a time, on ten successive days.
Neither the various stories themselves nor the idea of uniting them in a framework is original with Boccaccio. The latter device was especially popular in the Orient, and is illustrated in the Seven Wise Men, so vastly popular in the Middle Ages. Chaucer imitated Boccaccio in this respect in his Canterbury Tales. The sources of the stories in the Decameron are various. Such tales were among the most popular kinds of literature of the times, as may be seen in the Fabliaux in France and the well-known collections, the Novellino and Cento Novelle, in Italy. Boccaccio gathers them from all sides and adds many he had heard told orally, especially anecdotes of his contemporaries. All these are changed, however, by the alchemy of his own genius, and become original in style, in delineation of character, and in local color.
The framework of the Decameron is as follows: During the terrible pestilence which raged in Europe in 1348, a famous description of which is given in the opening chapter of the book, seven young ladies and three young men meet in one of the churches at Florence and agree to forsake the plague-stricken city, retire to their villas in the country and try to forget in pleasant converse the terrors that surround them. The plan is carried out. Each day a leader is chosen, whom all must obey. After breakfast they betake themselves to the garden, and here on green lawns covered with flowers, beneath shady trees and beside clear-running streams, they dance, play, and sing; and then, comfortably seated on the soft grass, they pass the hours away in cheerful conversation and story-telling.
Each one of these one hundred stories has an individual character of its own. While reading them we see passing in picturesque procession before our eyes the whole of Italian society of the times, kings and princes, knights and peasants, merchant, artist, mechanic, priest, and monk. There are not wanting earnest and serious stories, but the comic and satirical element prevails; especially are the vices of the clergy scourged, that fruitful source of all European medieval literature. The avaricious and licentious priests and monks are everywhere held up to the scornful laughter of his readers.
All this is expressed in an admirable prose style, with perfect adaptation of local color, with excellent delineation of character and insight into human nature, and with the inimitable skill in narration of the born story-teller.
The popularity of Boccaccio was, and is still, enormous, in spite of the immorality of certain of his stories. He is read to-day in the elementary schools of Italy (in emendated editions), and his influence on modern literature is incalculable. In English literature alone most of the great writers have found subjects for poems, stories, and dramas in the Decameron, among them Chaucer, Dryden, Shakespeare, Keats, Tennyson, and Longfellow.
The following story, which I have translated with some slight condensation, is not only the best and most famous of the Decameron, but it illustrates on the one hand the vast antiquity of the short-story (existing, as it does, not only in all European languages in the Middle Ages, but running back its roots to the early antiquity of India), and on the other hand, the influence of Boccaccio, "Patient Griselda" having become almost a household word in modern literature, and having furnished themes for poet, painter, and sculptor. John Addington Symonds has declared that no Greek poem equals Boccaccio's story of Griselda for tenderness.
A long time ago there lived a certain marquis of Saluzzo, named Walter, who spent his time chiefly in hunting, with never a thought of marriage. His vassals not liking this state of affairs often urged him to take to himself a wife, so that in case of death, he might not be without an heir, nor they without a master. To all this Walter made answer as follows: "My friends, you urge me to do that which I had resolved not to do, considering how difficult it is to find a proper mate, and how hard is the life of him who finds one not suited to him. Yet since it pleases you to bind me with these chains, I will agree—on this condition, however, that I choose my wife myself, so that if evil come to me, I may have no one to blame but myself. But bear this in mind: if you do not honor her as becomes your lady, you shall prove to your cost how grievous a thing it is to have forced me to wed against my own desire."
Now for some time past Walter had been much attracted by the gentle manners of a poor but beautiful village maiden, who lived near his castle; and it seemed to him that with her he could be happy. Hence without seeking further he sent for her father, and agreed with him to take his daughter as his wife. This being settled, Walter called together his friends and vassals and said to them: "Friends, it has pleased you to ask me to take to myself a wife, and I have yielded, more to please you, however, than through any desire of my own. You will remember that you agreed to be satisfied and treat as your lady whomsoever I should choose. The time has now come when I intend to keep my promise, and I desire that you keep yours. I have found a young lady to my liking whom I intend to marry, and I shall bring her home in a few days. See to it that the wedding feast be a fair one and that you receive her honorably." The good men, all rejoicing, answered that they were indeed pleased, and that whoever his bride might be, they would honor her in all things as their lady.
After this Walter prepared a bountiful wedding feast and invited thereto his many friends and relatives and all the gentle folk round about. He had many rich and beautiful gowns made fit to adorn the figure of the young girl whom he proposed to wed; and likewise rings, and girdles, and a fair rich crown, in short all things that a new bride might require.
Now when the day fixed for the wedding had come, Walter mounted his horse and said to his followers: "Gentlemen, it is time to go for the bride." And setting out with all his company he came to the village, and the house of the young girl's father, where they found her returning in great haste from the fountain, in order that she, with the other women-folk of the village, might go and see the coming of their lord's bride. When Walter saw her he called her by name—that is, Griselda—and asked her where her father was; to whom she answered shamefacedly, "My lord, he is in the house." Then Walter dismounted, and ordering his followers to remain outside, went alone into the humble cottage, where he found her father—whose name was Giannùcolo—and said to him: "I have come to wed Griselda; but first I wish to ask her something in your presence." And he asked her if she would always try to please him, if he took her for his wife; and if she would promise not to be angry, whatever he might say or do; and many other similar things; to all of which she made answer: "Yes, my lord."
Then Walter, taking her by the hand, led her outside, and having called for the gowns he had prepared, he had her clothed therewith, and upon her head he placed a crown, and then as all present marveled mightily, he said: "My lords, this is she whom I intend shall be my wife"; and then turning to her who stood blushing and full of wonder, he said: "Griselda, will you take me for your husband?" To which she answered as before, "Yes, my lord." "Then," said he, "I will take you for my wife"; and in presence of all he wed her, and setting her upon a palfrey, he led her home.
The young bride was, as we have already said, beautiful in face and person, and withal so attractive, pleasing, and gentle-mannered, that she did not seem to have been a shepherdess, but the daughter of a noble lord; so that she made all those who had known her before, to marvel greatly. Moreover, she was so obedient to her husband, and so attentive to his comfort, that he held himself the happiest man in the world. In similar manner she was so kind and gracious towards her husband's subjects that they loved and honored her one and all, always praying for her health and happiness.
Shortly after the birth of his first child, a daughter, a strange fancy entered the mind of Walter, and he resolved to prove the patience and obedience of his wife, by subjecting her to many cruel trials. In the first place, he wounded her spirit by harsh words, feigning to be much disturbed in mind, and declaring that his vassals were ill-content with her on account of her low birth, and especially now that they saw that she bore children; wherefore they were sullen and did nothing but murmur. Hearing which words, Griselda, without changing countenance, said: "My lord, do with me as you think best for your own honor and happiness, and I will be content; for I know I was not worthy of all this honor to which you, by your courtesy, have brought me." This answer was very pleasing to Walter, who thus saw that her new honors had not puffed her up with pride.
A short time after, having said to his wife that his subjects could not endure her daughter, he sent one of his servants to her who, with mournful countenance, said, "My lady, if I would not die, I must do that which my lord commands me. He has ordered me to take your little daughter and to——" and he said no more. The lady, hearing these words, and seeing the face of the servant, and remembering the words of her husband, believed that the servant had been ordered to kill her child; whereupon quickly taking the little one from the cradle, she kissed and prayed over it, with unchanged countenance, in spite of the great sorrow she felt in her heart; and placing it in the arms of the servant, said: "Here, do what thy lord and mine has commanded thee to do. But see to it that the child be not devoured by birds or wild beasts, unless indeed he commands thee so to do."
The servant took the girl and reported to Walter what the lady had said. He, marveling greatly at her constancy, sent both servant and child to a certain lady in Bologna, a relative of his, begging her to bring it up and educate it carefully, without, however, revealing its parentage.
Some years after this Griselda gave birth to a son, to the great joy of Walter. But not being satisfied with what he already had done, he wounded Griselda's feelings still more, saying to her one day, "My lady, since this our child was born, I have not been able to live with my subjects, so bitterly do they rebel against the thought that some day a grandson of Giannùcolo shall rule over them. Wherefore, if I do not wish to be driven out, I shall have to leave you and take another wife." Griselda heard these words with patient mind, and only answered: "My lord, do you think how you may best satisfy your own pleasure; have no thought concerning me, for I desire only to see you happy."
A few days after, Walter sent for the son as he had done for the daughter before, and feigning again to have it slain, he sent it to Bologna to be brought up together with his daughter. At all of which Griselda made no other sign, nor said anything more than she had done when her daughter had been taken away. And once more Walter marveled to himself and declared that no other woman could do what she did, for he knew well that she loved her children dearly. His vassals, believing that he had put his children to death, blamed him strongly as a most cruel man, and had great compassion on their lady. She, however, never complained, but said always to those who condoled with her on the loss of her children, that what seemed good to their father seemed good to her.
Many years after the birth of his daughter, Walter, thinking it time to make a final test of Griselda's long suffering, declared openly that he could endure her no longer as his wife, and that he had acted as a foolish boy when he had taken her. Wherefore he would now make overtures to the pope for leave to divorce her, and take another wife. The lady, hearing these things, and foreseeing that she should have to return to her father's house, and perchance keep sheep as before, seeing another woman married to him whom she loved so much, grieved deeply in her heart. Nevertheless, as in the other blows of fortune, she disposed herself to bear this also with firm countenance.
Not long after, Walter caused false letters to come from Rome, and told his subjects that the pope had granted him a dispensation to leave Griselda and take a new wife. Then calling her before him in the presence of many others, he said to her: "Griselda, by special dispensation granted me by the pope, I am able now to leave you and take another wife; and inasmuch as my ancestors have been great gentlemen and lords of this country, while yours have always been laborers, I intend that you shall no longer be my wife, but shall return to your father's house, bearing with you the dowry which you brought." Hearing these words, Griselda, with the greatest difficulty, kept back her tears, being in this stronger than the common run of women, and answered: "My lord, I have always known that my humble condition was in no wise suited to your exalted rank; and what I have been to you, I recognize as coming from God and your courtesy. Nor have I ever regarded all these honors as given to me, but only loaned. If it please you then to take them back, it is my duty to be willing to give them up. Here is the ring with which you married me; take it."
Walter, who had more desire to weep than anything else, stood there with hard face and said: "Go, but see to it that you take with you one garment only." Whereupon she, dressed in a single garment, barefooted and bareheaded, left her husband's castle, and returned to her father, followed by the tears and compassion of all who saw her. Giannùcolo, who had never been quite able to believe that Walter could be content to take his daughter as his wife, and who expected her return every day, had kept her clothes which she had put off on the morning of her marriage. Now Griselda put them on again and gave herself up to the little duties of her father's house, bearing the cruel assaults of hostile fortune with firm mind.
In the meantime Walter declared to his vassals that he had chosen for his wife the daughter of a certain count of Panago (who was the husband of the lady in Bologna, to whom he had sent his children); and ordering great preparations for the wedding to be made, he sent for Griselda, and when she had come, he said: "I am about to bring home the lady whom I have chosen for my wife. You know that I have no one here who can arrange all the things needful for so great a feast. Wherefore do you put everything in order, and call in to help you the women you think best, and receive them as if you were still the lady here. Then after the wedding is all over you may return home."
Although these words were like so many stabs to the heart of Griselda, who could not lay aside her love for him as easily as she had laid aside her good fortune, she answered: "My lord, I am ready." And dressed in her peasant costume, she entered the house, whence she had shortly before gone forth, and began to sweep and put in order the rooms, and to prepare the food, setting her own hands to everything as if she were but a common servant of the house. Nor did she rest till all was properly arranged and prepared for the wedding. And then, inviting in the name of Walter all the ladies of the country round about, she began to prepare the feast, and when the wedding day had come, although she was dressed in coarse garments, she received all the ladies who came with ladylike bearing and smiling face.
Walter, who had caused his children to be diligently brought up in Bologna in the house of his relative, wife of the count of Panago (his son being six years old and his daughter twelve, the latter being the most beautiful creature ever seen), had sent to the count of Panago, begging him to bring his children to Saluzzo, and to say to all that the girl was to marry Walter. The count did as he was requested, and with the two children and a noble company arrived about noon at Saluzzo, where all the peasants and neighbors from round about were waiting for the new bride. She was received by the ladies, and Griselda, dressed as she was, came forward to meet her cheerfully, saying: "Welcome to my lady."
Walter, who now thought he had sufficient evidence of the long-suffering of his wife, called her to him, and in the presence of all, said to her: "What think you of our bride?" "My lord," said Griselda, "she seems fair indeed to look upon; and if she is as wise as beautiful, which I well believe, I doubt not that you will live with her the happiest gentleman in the world. But I beseech you for one thing: do not wound her spirit, as you have that of your other wife. For I do not believe she can stand it, young as she is, and so delicately brought up."
Walter, seeing that she firmly believed the girl was to be his wife, and that yet she spoke thus kindly of her, set her down beside him, and said: "Griselda, it is time now that you receive the rewards of your patience, and that those who have reputed me cruel, may know that what I did was to teach you how to be a wife, and to prepare for myself a life of perpetual peace and quiet with you as my loving and faithful companion. Therefore take with joyful mind this girl, whom you thought to be my bride, and her brother, for your children and mine. These are they whom you and many others long have thought I had cruelly slain. I am your husband, who love you above all things else; and I indeed can boast that no other man has so great reason to be content with his wife as I;" and thus speaking he embraced and kissed her, and raising her who was now weeping for joy, he led her to where the daughter sat, listening in amazement to all these things, and embraced her and her brother tenderly. Then all the ladies, rejoicing greatly, rose from the table and went with Griselda to her room, and dressed her in a rich gown, such as befitted a lady, which she ever seemed, even in her rags, and led her back again to the hall, and then all, rejoicing, continued the feast. The count of Panago went back to Bologna, and Walter, taking Giannùcolo from his work-shop, kept him in state as his father-in-law, so that he lived in great comfort and honor to the end of his life. And the marquis himself, having found his daughter a noble husband, lived long and happily with Griselda, holding her ever in love and esteem.
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