[“So are other refuse of the people[114] besides Friars!” interrupted the angry Summoner, when he heard that.
“Peace, with bad luck to you!” cries mine host, also getting angry; “and let the Friar tell his story. Now tell on, master, and let the Summoner gale!”[115]]
This false thief—this Summoner—used to find out, in all sorts of underhand ways, what people did, right or wrong, by spying in secret, and by keeping people to spy for him. And when he found out anybody doing wrong, he would threaten to summon them before the court, and they used to bribe him with money to let them off. If they were too poor to bribe him, he would make the archdeacon punish them; but if they had enough money to give him, he did not care how many bad things they did, and never told the archdeacon. This was very unjust and wicked, as it encouraged people to do wrong; and the Summoner grew quite rich in this evil way, for he kept all the money himself, and did not give it to the archdeacon. He was, you see, a thief as well as a spy;
For in this world nys dogge for the bowe[116]
That can an hurt dere from an hol y-knowe,whole
No dog on earth that’s trainëd to the bow
Can a hurt deer from an unhurt one know,
better than this cunning man knew what everybody was about,—
And for that was the fruyt of al his rent,because
Therfore theron he set all his entent.thereon, purpose
And so bifel, that oones on a daybefell, once
This Sompnour, ever wayting on his pray,
Rod forth to sompne a widew, an old ribibe,[117]
Feynyng a cause, for he wolde han a bribe.
And happede that he say bifore him rydesaw
A gay yeman under a forest syde.
A bowe he bar, and arwes bright and kene;
He had upon a courtepy of grene;short cloak
An hat upon his heed with frenges blake.head
Sir, quoth this Sompnour, heyl and wel overtake.overtaken
Welcome, quod he, and every good felawe.fellow
Whider ridestow under this grene schawe?ridest thou, wood
(Sayde this yiman) wiltow fer to-day?
This Sompnour him[118] answerd and sayde, Nay:
Here faste by, quod he, is myn ententpurpose
To ryden, for to reysen up a rentraise
That longith to my lordes dueté.duty
And, since that was the source of all his pelf,
To winning gain he did devote himself.
And so it chanc’d that, once upon a day,
This Summoner, ever waiting for his prey,
Rode forth to summon a widow, a poor soul,
And feign’d a cause, that he might get a dole.
It happen’d that he saw before him ride
A yeoman gay, along the forest side.
A bow he bore, and arrows, bright and keen;
He had on a short upper cloak of green;
A black-fringed hat upon his head was set.
The Summoner cried out, “Hail, sir, and well met!”
“Welcome,” quoth he, “and every one as good!
And whither ridest thou in this green wood?
(The yeoman said) and is it far you go?”
The Summoner made answer, and said, “No:
Close handy here my errand lies,” quoth he,
“I ride to raise a rent that’s owing me,
Belonging to my master’s property.”
“Art thou a bailiff, then?” asks the yeoman. The Summoner was ashamed to say what he really was, so he said, “Yes.”
“Good,” said the stranger. “Thou art a bailiff and I am another. Let us be friends. I am unknown in this country; but if you will come and see me in my country, I have plenty of gold and silver in my chest, and I will share it all with you.”
“Thank you,” said the greedy Summoner; and they shook hands, and promised to be staunch friends and sworn brothers till they died! And thus they rode on together.
The Summoner, who was always inquisitive and asking questions, was very anxious to know where he could find this amiable new friend, who was so free with his money.
Brother, quoth he, wher now is your dwellyng,
Another day if that I schulde yow seeche?seek
“Brother,” quoth he, “your dwelling now, where is’t,
If I some future day the place could reach?”
Notice the cunning yeoman’s answer:—
This yiman him answered in softe speche:
Brother, quod he, fer in the north[119] contre,
Wheras I hope somtyme I schal the se;where
Er we depart I schal the so wel wisse,separate, teach
That of myn hous ne schaltow never misse.shalt thou, miss
The yeoman answered him in softest speech:
“Brother,” quoth he, “far in the north countree,
Whereat I hope sometime I shall thee see.
Before we part I shall direct thee so,
Thou canst not fail my dwelling-place to know.”
You will see later why he was so anxious to bring the Summoner to his own dwelling.
Now, brother, quod this Sompnour, I yow prayyou
Teche me, whil that we ryden by the way,ride
Syn that ye ben a baily as am I,since, be
Som subtilte, as tel me faithfullysubtilty
In myn office how I may moste[120] wynne.my
And spare not for consciens or for synne,refrain
But, as my brother, tel me how do ye?
“Now, brother,” said the Summoner, “I pray,
Teach me while we are riding on our way,
Since you a bailiff are, as well as I,
Some subtle craft, and tell me faithfully
How in my office I most gold may win,
And hide not aught for conscience or for sin,
But as my brother, tell me how do ye?”
The strange yeoman is delighted at these questions, and you will see that in his answer he pretends to describe himself, but he is really describing all the Summoner does!
Now, by my trouthe, brothir myn, sayde he,
As I schal telle the a faithful tale.
My wages ben ful streyt and eek ful smale;narrow, small
My lord to me is hard and daungerous,severe
And myn office is ful laborous,laborious
And therfor by extorciouns[121] I lyve.
Forsoth I take al that men wil me yive,give
Algate by sleighte or by violence,always, cunning
Fro yer to yer I wynne my despence,
I can no better telle faithfully.
Now, certes, quod this Sompnour, so fare I.
I spare not to take, God it woot,knows
But-if it be to hevy or to hoot.[122]unless
What I may gete in counseil prively,get
No more consciens of that have I;conscience
Nere myn extorcions I mighte not lyven,were it not for
Ne of such japes I wil not be schriven.games, shriven
Stomak ne conscience know I noon.
I schrew thes schrifte-fadres, everichoon.curse
Wel be we met, by God and by seint Jame!
But, leve brother, telle me thy name?
Quod this Sompnour. Right[123] in this menewhile
This yeman gan a litel for to smyle.began
Brothir, quod he, woltow that I the telle?wilt thou
I am a feend, my dwellyng is in helle,
And her I ryde about my purchasyng,here
To wite wher men wol yive me eny thing.know
My purchas is theffect of all my rent.the effect
Loke how thou ridest for the same entent
To wynne good, thou rekkist never how,
Right so fare I, for ryde I wolde now
Unto the worldes ende for a praye.prey
A, quod the Sompnour, benedicite, what say ye?[124]ah
“Now, by my troth, my brother dear,” quoth he,
“I will be frank with you, and tell you all:
The wages that I get are very small,
My master’s harsh to me, and stingy too,
And hard is all the work I have to do;
And therefore by extortion do I live.
Forsooth, I take what any one will give;
Either by cunning or by violence
From year to year I snatch my year’s expense.
No better can I tell you honestly.”
“Now, truly,” cried the Summoner, “so do I!
I never spare to take a thing, God wot,
Unless it be too heavy or too hot.
What I can grasp by counsel privily,
No scruples in that matter trouble me.
Without extortion I could ne’er subsist,
So in my pranks I ever will persist;
Stomach nor conscience truly I have none.
I hate all these shrift-fathers, every one!
Well met are we, our ways are just the same.
But, my dear fellow, tell me now your name?”
The Summoner entreated him. Meanwhile
That yeoman broke into a little smile.
“Brother,” he answered, “wilt thou have me tell?
—I am a fiend, my dwelling is in hell,
And here I ride about my purchasing
To know what men will give me anything.
Such gains make up the whole of all my rent.
Look how thou journeyest for the same intent
To reap thy gains, thou carest never how!
Just so I do—for I will journey now
Unto the wide world’s end to get my prey.”
“Mercy!” the Summoner cried, “what is’t ye say?”
He is rather aghast at this awful confession, bad as he admits himself to be. He had sincerely thought it was a real yeoman; and when he says to him, with a strange and evil smile, “Shall I tell you?—I am a fiend, my dwelling is in hell,” the horrible candour strikes him dumb for a minute. He rather wishes he wasn’t his sworn brother. But he very soon gets over this, thinking of the gold and silver, and begins to talk quite friendly.
I wende ye were a yemen trewely:truly
Ye have a mannes schap as wel as I.shape
“I thought you were a yeoman, verily:
Ye have a human shape as well as I.”
“Have you then a distinct form in hell like what I see?”
“No, certainly,” says the fiend, “there we have none, but we take a form when we will.”
Or ellis make yow seme that we ben schapeIt seem to you
Somtyme like a man, or like an ape;
Or lik an aungel can I ryde or go;
It is no wonder thing though it be so.
“Or else we make you think we have a shape,
Sometimes like to a man, or like an ape;
Or like an angel I can ride or go;
It is not wondrous that it should be so.”
“Why, a common conjurer can deceive you any day, and I have tenfold more cunning than a conjurer!”
“Why,” said the Summoner, quite interested, “do you have several shapes, and not only one?”
“We borrow whatever shape is best to catch our prey,” said the evil one.
“What makes you take all that trouble?” says the Summoner.
Ful many a cause, lieve sir Sompnour,dear
Sayde this feend. But al thing hath a tyme;
The day is schort, and it is passed prime,[125]
And yit ne wan I nothing in this day;won
I wol entent to winning, if I may,attend
And not entende our thinges to declare.
“Full many a cause, my good sir Summoner,”
Replied the fiend. “But all things have a time;
The day is short, and it is now past prime,
Yet have I not won anything to-day;
I’ll give my mind to winning, if I may,
And not our privy doings to declare.”
For you see the fiend was more intent upon his business than even the Summoner. However, he goes on to say, that sometimes he is obliged to work under the great God, without whose sufferance he could never have any power at all.
For somtyme we ben Goddis instrumentesGod’s
And menes to don his comaundementes,means
When that Him list, upon His creatures,He chooses
In divers acts and in divers figures.various
“Sometimes God uses us as instruments
And means, to work out His all-wise intents:
When on us this divine command He lays,
We serve in divers forms and divers ways.”
“But you needn’t be in such a hurry,” he says to the Summoner. “You’ll know more than you like perhaps before long.”
But oon thing warne I the, I wol not jape,one, jest
Thou wilt algates wite how we ben schape.always know
Thou schalt herafterward, my brother deere,
Com wher the nedith not of me to leere,[126]come, learn
For thou schalt by thin oughn experienceown
Conne,[127] in a chayer, reden of this sentencebe able, to counsel, meaning
Bet than Virgile[128] when he was on lyve,better, alive
Or Daunt also. Now let us ryde blyve,quickly
For I wol holde companye with the
Til it be so that thou forsake me.
“But of one thing I warn thee, not in play,
That thou shalt know what we are like, some day.
Thou shalt hereafter come, my brother dear,
Whither thou wilt not need of me to hear;
For thou shalt learned be—nay, specially wise
By self-experience—in these mysteries:
Wiser than Virgil ere from earth he past,
Or Dante either. Let us now ride fast,
For I will keep companionship with thee
Till thou desirest to depart from me.”
A pleasant prospect! However, the Summoner was quite content, so long as the silver and gold were shared with him. He declares he will never forsake his sworn brother, though he be a fiend, and promises to share all his own goods with the evil one! adding—
Tak thou thi part, and that men wil the yyven,thee, give
And I schal myn, thus may we bothe lyven;mine, live
And if that eny of us have more than other,either
Let him be trewe, and part it with his brother.
I graunte, quod the devel, by my fay.
And with that word thay riden forth hir way.ride
“Take thou thy part, whatever men will give,
And I will do the same, so both shall live;
And if the one get more than doth the other,
Let him be true and share it with his brother.”
“I grant it,” said the devil, “by my fay.”
With that, they rode together on their way.
As they proceeded they saw right at the town’s end a cart laden with hay. The road was heavy with mud, so that the cart stuck. The carter smote his horses, and cried like mad, “Hait! go on![129] The fiend take you—what a labour I have with you. The fiend have it all, cart, horse, and hay!”
The Summoner, hearing this, remembered he was to have half of all the evil one’s goods, and whispered to him, “Don’t you hear what the carter says? Take it all quick—he has given it you—hay, and cart, and the three horses!”
“Nay,” said the evil one, “he does not mean what he says. He is only in a passion. Ask him yourself, or else wait and see what comes next.”
The carter whacked his horses, and they began to stoop and pull the cart out, and then he said, “Hait! bless you—good Dobbins—well pulled, my own grey boy! Now is my cart out of the mud.”
“There, brother, what did I tell you?” says the fiend. “Now, you see the churl said one thing, but he thought another. Let us go on; I shall get nothing here.”
With that they went a little way outside the town. The Summoner began to whisper to his companion, “Here there lives an old beldame who would almost as soon lose her head as give up a penny of her goods. But I mean to have twelve pence[130] out of her, though she should go mad; or else I’ll haul her up before the court. And yet, all the same, I know no harm of her. But if you want a lesson how to extort your gains in your country, you may take example of me!”
The Summoner goes and raps at the old widow’s gate. “Come out, you old crone. I dare say you are in mischief there!” he cried.
“Who knocks?” said the old woman. “God save you, sir. What is your will?”
“I’ve a bill of summons against you. On pain of cursing, see that you are to-morrow before the archdeacon, to answer to the court.”
“God help me,” says the poor old woman, in great distress. “I have been ill a long time, and cannot walk so far, and to ride[131] would kill me, my side pricks so. May I not ask for a libel,[132] and answer there by my procurator whatever there is against me?”
“Yes,” says the Summoner, “pay me—let’s see—twelve pence, and I will let you off. I shall not get much profit out of that. My master gets it, and not I. Make haste and give me twelve pence—I can’t wait.”
“Twelve pence!” said the poor widow. “Now, heaven help me out of this. I have not so much as twelve pence in the whole wide world. You know that I am old and poor. Rather give me alms.”
“Nay, then,” cries the hard-hearted Summoner, “I will not let you off, even if you die of it.”
“Alas!” says she, “I am not guilty.”
“Pay me!” cried he, “or I will carry off your new pan besides, which you owe me, for when you were summoned to the court before, I paid for your punishment!”
“You lie,” cried the poor old woman. “I was never summoned before to that court in all my life; and I have done no wrong. May the evil one catch you for your wickedness, and carry you away, and my pan too!”
And when the fiend heard her curse the Summoner on her knees, he came forward and said, “Now, good mother, are you in earnest when you say that?”
“May the devil fetch him, pan and all, before he dies, if he doesn’t repent!”
“Repent!” cries the wicked Summoner, “I don’t mean to repent anything I do, I can tell you. I wish I had everything you possess besides—even every rag you have on!”
“Now, brother,” says the evil one, “don’t be angry; for you and this pan are mine by right. This very night you shall go with me to hell, and you will soon know more about our mysteries than a master of divinity!”
And with that word the foule fend him hente;caught
Body and soule, he with the devyl wente,
Wher as the Sompnours han her heritage;their
And God, that maked after His ymagemade
Mankynde, save and gyde us alle and some,
And leene this Sompnour good man to bycome.grant
With that the foul fiend took him for his own,
Body and soul he’s with the devil gone,
Whither these Summoners have their heritage
And God, who did create in His image
Mankind, protect and guide us all our days,
And lead this Summoner here to mend his ways.
Lordings, I could have told you, if I had time, all the pains and punishments which came to this wicked Summoner in hell. But let us all pray to be kept from the tempter’s power. The lion lies in wait always to slay the innocent, if he can. Dispose your hearts ever to withstand the evil fiend who longs to make you his slaves! He will not tempt you above what you can bear, for Christ will be your champion and your knight.[133] And pray that this Summoner with us, may repent of his misdeeds before the devil carries him away.
Notes by the Way.
Legends of the kind told by the Friar were very popular in the mediæval times, believed in by some as they were laughed at by others. Mr. Wright conjectures that this tale was translated from some old fabliau. The Friar evidently counted on the unpopularity of this class of men, the Summoners, when he held his fellow-traveller up to general ignominy in this way. It seems a breach of civility and fair-play to modern minds, but the Summoners were in reality hated universally for their extortion or for their secret power among the people. As you have seen, the host begins by calling for justice, but the popular feeling was but too clearly on the Friar’s side from the first, and mine host shares it. (Vide notes, pp. 31, 57.)
This Tale would appear by no means to discourage swearing; but mark the distinction drawn between a hearty, deliberate malediction, and the rapid unmeaning oath which sowed the common talk. The lesson was probably the more forcible through the absence of any hypercritical censure of ‘strong language’—censure which would have been vain indeed, in an age when common oaths were thought as much less of, as positive cursing was more of, than in the present day.
The rough moral deduced was admirably suited to the coarse and ignorant minds of the lower orders.
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.