The young girl was much prettier than Griselda, according to common opinion, and a much better age for child-bearing. She and the marquis would have good progeny, especially since this young girl was – unlike Griselda – of proper lineage. The people also marvelled at the beauty of the young boy beside her; seeing sister and brother together, they all praised the marquis for his judgement.
Oh fickle people, people of the wind, unsteady and unfaithful! You are as ever changing as a weathervane. You delight only in novelty. You wax and wane as does the moon. You gape and chatter, much to your own cost. Your opinions are worthless, and your behaviour proves that you are never to be trusted. Only a fool would believe anything you say.
The more thoughtful knew this to be true, even as they watched the others running up and down and gawping at the fine dresses. The silly folk were so pleased with the novelty of this new maiden that they could speak, and think, about nothing else. Well, enough of this. I will turn now to Griselda, and see how she is coping with the situation.
She was as busy as ever. She was doing what was expected of her by Walter, and attending to all the details of the great feast. She did not care at all about the tattered state of her own clothing, but with cheerful spirit she hurried with the others towards the great gate where she could see the young bride advancing. Then she went back to work.
She greeted all the guests of the marquis with due deference and propriety. No one could fault her in anything and in fact she behaved with such decorum that everyone wondered who she might be. Who was this woman, dressed so unbecomingly, who was yet the soul of tact and cheerfulness? All of them commended her.
In the meantime Griselda praised the young brother and sister with such warmth and affection that no one could have equalled it. The time came when the whole company was about to sit down at the feast. At that moment, as she was supervising the preparations, the marquis called out to her.
‘Griselda,’ he said to her playfully, ‘how do you like my new wife? Isn’t she a beauty?’
‘She is indeed, my lord. I have never seen a lovelier woman in my life. God send her good fortune. And I hope he will send both of you peace and prosperity until the end of your lives.
‘I will say one thing, however, if I may. I would beg you not to test and torment this poor girl, as you once tested me. She has been brought up more tenderly. She is more delicate than me, I believe. She could not endure adversity in the same way as a girl born and brought up in poverty. You know who I mean.’
When Walter looked upon her cheerful face, when he saw that there was no malice in her heart towards him, he recalled the number of times he had grievously offended her. She was still as steady and as constant as a stone wall. So he began to take pity on her – yes, pity for her loyalty to him.
‘Enough,’ he said. ‘You have suffered enough, Griselda. Fear no more. All things shall be well. I have tested your faith and kindness to the utmost. I have tested you in wealth and in poverty. No other woman in the world could have endured so much. Now I know, dear wife, the full measure of your truth and constancy.’ With that he took her in his arms and kissed her.
She was so amazed that she did not know what was happening to her. She did not understand a word he said to her. It was as if she were walking in her sleep. Then suddenly she was wide awake. ‘Griselda,’ he said, ‘I swear to God you have always been my true and faithful wife. I will have no other, as long as I live.
‘This is your daughter. You believed her to be my new bride. But you yourself gave birth to her. This young man is your son. One day he will be my heir. They have been brought up secretly in Bologna, by my orders. Take them back again. You will never be able to say that you have lost your children.
‘I know that the people think the worst of me. But I swear that I did not test you out of anger or out of cruelty. I merely wished to assay your patience and your womanly fidelity. I did not kill my children. God forbid! I merely wanted to keep them out of the way while I watched over you.’
When Griselda heard this, she almost fainted for joy. Then she called her two young children to her, and embraced them. She wept as she kissed them, her tears falling upon their cheeks and upon their hair.
All those around her were crying, too, as she spoke softly to her son and daughter. ‘I give thanks to God,’ she said, ‘for saving my dear children. I give thanks to my lord and master, too. If I were to die now, I would know at least that I have found favour in your eyes. Now that I am restored to grace, I do not fear death. I do not fear anything.
‘Oh my dear children – my little ones – your poor mother imagined that you were buried beneath the ground. She really believed that rats or dogs had eaten your bodies. But God has saved you. And your father has kept you safe.’ Then she fainted upon the ground.
She had embraced her children so tightly, in fact, that it was difficult to prise them from their mother’s loving arms. All those around her were still crying, of course. They could not bear to see her in her extremity of joy and bewilderment.
Walter kneeled beside her and tried to soothe her. After a while she stood up, a little disconcerted, and everyone cheered her and encouraged her until eventually she recovered her composure. Walter was the very soul of comfort and concern. Really, it was a delight to see them both together once again.
When the ladies of the court saw their opportunity, they led Griselda to her old chamber. There they removed her threadbare clothes and dressed her in a gown made of cloth of gold. They put a crown of many jewels upon her head before leading her into the principal hall, where the newly restored wife and mother was greeted with acclamation.
So this unhappy day had a happy ending. Every man and woman danced and feasted, as well they might, until the stars lit up the heavens with their blissful light. There was more joy, and more revelry – more expense, too – than the celebrations of the bridal day so many years before.
So for many years Griselda and Walter lived together in love and happiness. Their daughter was married to one of the richest and most noble lords in all of Italy. The marquis took good care of Griselda’s father, too, who spent the rest of his days at ease in the palace.
Griselda’s son, on the death of his father, took over the rule of Saluzzo. He married well, and happily, but he never put his wife to any test. It is said by some that this world is not so strong as it was in old times. I don’t know about that. But listen to what our noble author, Petrarch, had to say in conclusion to his tale.
‘I have not told this story to counsel wives into submission. They could not, and should not, copy the patience of Griselda. The real lesson is more simple. Every man and woman should, like her, try to be steadfast in adversity. That is enough.’ And that is why Petrarch chose to narrate the story of Griselda in his most noble prose.
If a woman can be so submissive to a man, then how much more should we show our obedience to God Himself? He has every reason to test us all. He created us. But in his epistle Saint James tells us that God will never tempt us beyond our strength.
It is true that he tempts us every day. He disciplines us with seasons of adversity, since in misfortune we can exercise our virtue. He knows all our frailties, of course, and does not need to probe them further. He does everything for our own good. So be patient. Be of good cheer.
I will say one more thing to you, lords and ladies of the pilgrimage. It would be almost impossible to find another Griselda in modern England. If you put a wife or mother to the test, you would find more brass than gold. A woman nowadays is like a bad coin. She will break rather than bend.
Naturally I have nothing against the Wife of Bath. May God give her, and those like her, a good life! Long may she rule over us!
Griselda is dead, and lies buried somewhere in the land of Italy. Her patience was in the end rewarded. But I beg you, all you husbands, never to test your wives as Walter tested her. Your efforts will not work. You will fail.
All you noble wives, take heed. Never let humility nail
down your tongue. Do not allow some other writer to tell your story as Petrarch recounted that of kind and patient Griselda. Do you remember the story of Chichevache, who could feed only on humble housewives? That was why he was so lean. Please do not be fodder for his stomach.
You should follow the example of Echo, who always had an answer ready. Don’t be naive. Don’t be beaten down. Fight back. Keep the lesson of Griselda firmly in your mind. You can do nothing but profit from it.
Oh you mighty wives, defend yourselves. You can be as strong as elephants, I am sure of it. Don’t allow men to get the better of you. Those of you who are not so mighty – well, I am sure you can still be fierce. You can rattle on and on, just like a windmill in a gale.
Have no fear of your husband. Even if he were clothed in full armour, the arrows of your eloquence would get through the chain-mail. Make him jealous. Or – better still – accuse him of something. Then he will be as still and frightened as a little bird.
If you are good-looking, make use of it. Show off your features, and your dress. If you are ugly, spend your money freely and make friends with everyone. Get them on your side. Be as light and playful as a leaf upon a linden tree. Let your husband do the wailing and lamenting. That is all I have to say.
Heere endeth the Tale of the Clerk of Oxenford
The Merchant’s Prologue
The Prologe of the Marchantes Tale
‘I know all about wailing and lamenting,’ said the Merchant. ‘I am acquainted with grief. Many married men can tell the same story, I am sure of it. I have learned by experience. I have the worst wife in the world, you see. If she were married to the devil, she would get the better of him. I won’t bore you with all the details of her malice. Suffice to say that she is a complete bitch. There could not be a greater difference between her cruelty and the patience of Griselda. If I were free again, I would never fall into the same trap. A burned husband fears the fire. You know I am telling the truth. It may not be the case for all husbands. God forbid. But it is true of the majority.
‘I have been married only for two months, I admit, but I have been tormented every day by my wife. No bachelor could possibly understand the pain I have endured. Even if he were knifed, or whipped, he would not suffer half as much as I have done. She is a wicked woman.’
Harry Bailey clapped him on the back. ‘Well, sir Merchant,’ he said, ‘since you are such an expert on the woes of marriage, tell us all about them.’
‘Willingly, sir. But I will say no more about my own plight. I am too depressed about it.’
And, heaving a sigh, he began his story.
The Merchant’s Tale
Heere bigynneth the Marchantes Tale
Once upon a time there dwelled in Lombardy a worthy knight. He lived in Pavia, where he was prosperous and well respected. He had in fact been a bachelor for sixty years, but he enjoyed himself with any number of women. He was highly sexed, I believe, as are many unmarried men. His name was January. When he had just passed his sixtieth year he either went mad or he repented of his sinfulness. He decided to get married, in other words. He went around looking for a likely wife, beseeching the Lord God all the time that he might for once experience the bliss that lies in married life. I am not making this up. He was determined to live under that holy bond, that gracious union, that blessed state in which God determined that the first man and woman should dwell. ‘No other life,’ he announced, ‘is worth anything. Wedlock is so pure. Wedlock is so easy. Wedlock is paradise on earth.’ So said this wise and worthy knight.
He may have had a point, especially when the husband is old and infirm. Then a young wife is a regular treasure. She is a fruit to be plucked. He can enjoy her youth, and at the same time engender an heir. He can have a good time, while an old bachelor can only moan and groan. Confirmed bachelors always suffer for their calling. They are building on shifting ground. They think they have found stability, but it falls apart in their hands. They live like animals, without care or restraint. Married men, on the other hand, are happy and secure in the blissful state of matrimony. They have everything they could possibly need. Who could be so obedient as a wife? Who could be more true? Who could be more attentive, in sickness or in health? A wife will never leave her husband. She will never tire of caring for him, even if he became bedridden and close to death. Especially not then, of course.
Yet there are some wise men who beg to disagree with this. Take Theophrastus, for example, who wrote The Golden Book on Marriage. Marriage was not golden for him. But I suspect him of lying. ‘Do not take a wife,’ he said, ‘for the sake of household economy. It is a false saving. A good servant will spare you expense, and will also look after you better than any wife. A wife will always demand her half share in everything. If you are sick you will be happier in the hands of your friends, or even of a serving-boy. Your wife, as always, will be thinking of your goods and chattels. I will tell you something else. If you marry, you are sure to be cuckolded. A woman is unfaithful by nature.’
No, no, Theophrastus! May God curse you for these words! You are telling nothing but lies and more lies! Pay no attention to him. Listen to me instead.
A wife is a gift from God. All other gifts are as nothing. Think of them. Lands. Rents. Pastures. Household goods. They are the gifts of Fortune, mutable and transitory. They are shadows on the wall. But be sure of this. A wife is for life. A wife can last a long time – longer, perhaps, than you might like.
That is why I hold marriage to be a great sacrament. He who is wifeless is cursed. He is helpless. He is desolate. I am not talking about monks or friars, of course. Let me tell you this, too. Women are born to be the servants of men. They are born to help us out. When God had made Adam, and saw him lying in the grass alone and naked, He took pity on him. In His goodness He thought to Himself, ‘Let us now make a companion for this poor man who resembles him. That is the thing to do.’ And He wrought Eve. So, you see, I have proved my point. A wife is a husband’s comfort. She is his earthly paradise; she is his honey. She is so virtuous and obedient that the two of them are bound to live in harmony. They are one flesh. So of course they have one heart between them, both in sickness and in health.
A wife! Good God! How can a man suffer when he has a wife beside him? I cannot say. There is no way of describing or picturing the bliss between them. If he is poor, she will help him in his labours; she keeps house for him, and wastes nothing. She approves of everything her husband does. She will never say ‘no’ when he says ‘yes’. ‘Do this,’ he says. ‘Of course, sir,’ she replies. That is the way it is. Oh happy sacrament of matrimony! You are so cordial, so delightful, so well loved and so well respected! Any man worth his salt will go down on his bended knees and thank God for the day he was married. Or else he will pray to God to send him a wife as quickly as possible. ‘Oh God,’ he says. ‘Send me a woman to last me all my life. Then I will be content.’ He will not be wrong in that, I can tell you, especially if he heeds his wife’s advice. Then he will be able to hold up his head. Women are so truthful and so wise, as I am sure you all know, that men are duty bound to follow their commandments.
Do you remember how Jacob took the advice of Rebecca? His mother told him to wear the skin of a goat around his shoulders to trick his father and win his blessing. And do you remember the story of Judith, who slew Holofernes and thus saved the people of God? And then there was Abigail, who by her good counsel saved her husband, Nabal, when he was about to be slain by King David. What about Esther? She saved the people of God from a life of lamentation. She persuaded her husband, Ahasuerus, to advance the cause of Mordechai. You can look up the stories in the Bible, if you don’t believe me.
Seneca, that wise man, tells us there is nothing more pleasing than a humble wife. Suffer your wife to speak, as Cato tells us, and fulfil her commands. Of course, if you are lucky, she may even obey you on occasions. That’s only being polite. A wife must be the keeper of your worldly goods. Who is going to look after you when you are sick? Take
my advice. Love your wife in the manner that Jesus Christ loves the Holy Church. If you love yourself, you must also love your wife. No man is an enemy of his own flesh, I am sure. He protects it. You must cherish your wife in the same way. Or you will never thrive. Whatever people say and joke – that was no lady, that was my wife – husband and wife are on the highway to happiness. They are bound so closely together that no harm can come to them. The wife, in particular, gets off lightly.
I will now return to my worthy knight named January. He had been considering all the matters I have put before you – the encroaching years, the physical bliss of marriage, the quiet and order of a settled home, the honey pot of a fair wife. Revolving these matters in his mind, he called together a group of his good friends in order to announce his decision. And with grave face he addressed them thus: ‘I am growing old, dear comrades. I am getting closer and closer to the brink of the grave. I must think about the life to come. I have stupidly wasted my strength in pursuit of all sorts of folly. As God is my judge, I am going to change. I have decided to marry as quickly as possible. I need your help in finding a pretty young girl. I need a bride now. I don’t think I can wait much longer. For my part I will look up and down the town. But you all must keep your eyes open, too. You must help me find a suitable wife.
‘There is one thing I must tell you, though. I will not stomach an old bride. She must be below the age of twenty. I enjoy my fish, but not my flesh, mature. I like fresh meat. A pike is better than a pickerel, but a frisky calf is better than an old cow. I don’t want or need a woman of thirty. Women of that age are nothing but bales of straw. They are beanbags. As for those old widows, God forbid I should come near any of them. They are nothing but trouble and strife. They are more wily than any scholar. They have been to the school of life, where they learned all the lessons. No. Give me a young thing. I will be able to mould her in my hands like a piece of warm wax. So there we are, friends. Throw out the old, and bring in the new. If I should by any chance be unlucky in love, and suffer an unhappy marriage, why, I would take up adultery for a living and go to the devil after my death. I would certainly never father any children on an old misery. I would rather be eaten by dogs than allow my inheritance to pass into strange hands. I am not kidding. I know all the reasons for marriage, although I suspect that there are many people who talk about it who haven’t the faintest idea. So I will tell you this. If a man cannot live chastely, then he must marry. If a man wants to have children by lawful procreation, then he should take a wife. A mistress or a lover is not the same thing. That is mere lechery, in the eyes of God, and has nothing to do with the obligations of the marital bed.
The Canterbury Tales – A Retelling Page 23
