Canterbury Tales (Barnes & Noble Classics Series)

by Geoffrey Chaucer

  Conveyed her; and thus the day they spent

  In revel, till the sun did set.

  And shortly, this tale to pursue,

  I say that to this new marquess

  God had such favor sent her of his grace,

  That it seemed not likely

  That she was born and fed in lowliness,

  As in a cottage or an ox stall,

  But nourished in an emperor’s hall.

  To every person she grew so dear

  And of honor worthy, that people where she was born

  And from her birth knew her year by year,

  Scarcely could believe—though they it would swear

  That to Janicula, of whom I spoke before,

  She daughter was, for, as by conjecture,

  To them she seemed another creature.

  For thogh that ever vertuous was she,

  She was encressed in swich excellence

  Of thewes gode, y-set in heigh bountee,

  And so discreet and fair of eloquence,

  So benigne and so digne of reverence,

  And coude so the peples herte embrace,

  That ech hir lovede that loked on hir face.

  Noght only of Saluces in the toun

  Publiced was the bountee of hir name,

  But eek bisyde in many a regioun,

  If oon seyde wel, another seyde the same;

  So spradde of hir heigh bountee the fame,

  That men and wommen, as wel yonge as olde,

  Gon to Saluce, upon hir to biholde.

  Thus Walter lowly, nay but royally,

  Wedded with fortunat honestetee,

  In goddes pees liveth ful esily

  At hoom, and outward grace y-nogh had he;

  And for he saugh that under low degree

  Was ofte vertu hid, the peple him helde

  A prudent man, and that is seyn ful selde.

  Nat only this Grisildis thurgh hir wit

  Coude al the feet of wyfly hoomlinesse,

  But eek, whan that the cas requyred it,

  The commune profit coude she redresse.

  Ther nas discord, rancour, ne hevinesse

  In al that lond, that she ne coude apese,

  And wysly bringe hem alle in reste and ese.

  Though that hir housbonde absent were anoon,

  If gentil men, or othere of hir contree

  Were wrothe, she wolde bringen hem atoon;

  So wyse and rype wordes hadde she,

  And jugements of so greet equitee,

  That she from heven sent was, as men wende,

  Peple to save and every wrong t‘amende.

  For although ever virtuous was she,

  She was increased in such excellence

  Of qualities fine, set in high goodness,

  And so wise and fair of speech,

  So gracious and so worthy of reverence,

  And could so the people’s hearts hold fast,

  That each loved her who looked upon her face.

  Not only in the town of Saluzzo

  Published was the goodness of her name,

  But also in many another region:

  If one spoke well, another said the same.

  So spread of her high goodness the fame

  That men and women, as well young as old,

  Went to Saluzzo upon her to behold.

  Thus Walter lowly—nay but royally—

  Wedded with fortunate honor,

  In God’s peace lived full easily

  At home, and outward grace enough had he;

  And because he saw that under low degree

  Was often virtue hid, the people held him

  A prudent man, and that is full seldom seen.

  Not only this Griselda through her wit

  Knew all the tasks of a housewife’s skill,

  But also, when the case required it,

  The common good could she amend.

  There was no discord, rancor, nor heaviness

  In all the land that she could not appease,

  And wisely bring them all peace and ease.

  Though her husband absent were,

  If gentlemen or others of her country

  Were angry, she would soon bring them into one;

  So wise and mature words had she,

  And judgements of so great even-handedness,

  That she was sent from heaven, as men imagined,

  People to save and every wrong to mend.

  Nat longe tyme after that this Grisild

  Was wedded, she a doughter hath y-bore,

  Al had hir lever have born a knave child.

  Glad was this markis and the folk therfore;

  For though a mayde child come al bifore,

  She may unto a knave child atteyne

  By lyklihed, sin she nis nat bareyne.

  PART THREE

  Ther fil, as it bifalleth tymes mo,

  Whan that this child had souked but a throwe,

  This markis in his herte longeth so

  To tempte his wyf, hir sadnesse for to knowe,

  That he ne mighte out of his herte throwe

  This merveillous desyr, his wyf t‘assaye,

  Needless, god woot, he thoughte hir for t’affraye.

  He hadde assayed hir y-nogh bifore,

  And fond hir ever good; what neded it

  Hir for to tempte and alwey more and more?

  Though som men preise it for a subtil wit,

  But as for me, I seye that yvel it sit

  T‘assaye a wyf whan that it is no nede,

  And putten her in anguish and in drede.

  For which this markis wroghte in this manere;

  He cam alone a-night, ther as she lay,

  With sterne face and with ful trouble chere,

  And seyde thus, “Grisild,” quod he, “that day

  That I yow took out of your povre array,

  And putte yow in estaat of heigh noblesse,

  Ye have nat that forgeten, as I gesse.

  I seye, Grisild, this present dignitee,

  In which that I have put yow, as I trowe,

  Maketh yow nat foryetful for to be

  That I yow took in povre estaat ful lowe

  For any wele ye moot your-selven knowe.

  Not long time after this Griselda

  Was wedded, she a daughter had borne.

  Although she’d rather have borne a son,

  Glad was this marquis and the folk therefore;

  For though a maid child came before,

  She may unto a boy child attain

  By likelihood, since she was not barren.

  PART THREE

  There happened, as it so often does,

  When this child had nursed but a short while,

  That this marquis in his heart longed so

  To tempt his wife, her fidelity to know,

  That he could not out of his heart throw

  This strange desire, to test his wife;

  Needlessly, God knows, he decided her to frighten.

  He had tested her enough before

  And found her ever good. Why should he need

  To tempt her always more and more,

  Though some men praised it for subtle wit?

  But as for me, I say that it ill becomes a man

  To test a wife when there is no need,

  And put her in anguish and in dread.

  For which this marquis wrought in this manner:

  He came alone at night, where she lay,

  With stern face and full troubled look,

  And said thus: “Griselda, that day

  That I you took out of your poor place

  And put you in estate of high noblesse,

  You have not that forgotten, as I guess.

  I say, Griselda, this present dignity,

  In which I have put you, as I believe,

  Perhaps makes you forget

  That I took you in poor estate full low.

  For any happiness you may yourself kno
w,

  Tak hede of every word that I yow seye,

  Ther is no wight that hereth it but we tweye.

  Ye woot your-self wel, how that ye cam here

  In-to this hous, it is nat longe ago,

  And though to me that ye be lief and dere,

  Un-to my gentils ye be no-thing so;

  They seyn, to hem it is greet shame and wo

  For to be subgets and ben in servage

  To thee, that born art of a smal village.

  And namely, sith thy doghter was y-bore,

  Thise wordes han they spoken doutelees;

  But I desyre, as I have doon bifore,

  To live my lyf with hem in reste and pees;

  I may nat in this caas be recchelees.

  I moot don with thy doghter for the beste,

  Nat as I wolde, but as my peple leste.

  And yet, god wot, this is ful looth to me;

  But nathelees with-oute your witing

  I wol nat doon, but this wol I,” quod he,

  ”That ye to me assente as in this thing.

  Shewe now your pacience in your werking

  That ye me highte and swore in your village

  That day that maked was our mariage.”

  Whan she had herd al this, she noght ameved

  Neither in word, or chere, or countenaunce;

  For, as it semed, she was nat agreved;

  She seyde, “lord, al lyth in your plesaunce,

  My child and I with hertly obeisaunce

  Ben youres al, and ye mowe save or spille

  Your owene thing; werketh after your wille.

  Ther may no-thing, god so my soule save,

  Lyken to yow that may displese me;

  Ne I desyre no-thing for to have,

  Ne drede for to lese, save only ye;

  Take heed of every word that I say to you:

  There’s no one who hears it but we two.

  You know well yourself how you came here

  Into this house, not long ago,

  And though to me you be beloved and dear,

  Unto my gentlefolk you be nothing so;

  They say it is a great shame and woe

  To be subjects and be in service

  To you, who born art of a small village.

  And especially since your daughter was born

  These words have they spoken, doubtless;

  But I desire, as I have done before,

  To live my life with them in rest and peace;

  I may not in this case be heedless.

  I must do with your daughter for the best,

  Not as I would, but as my people wish.

  And yet, God knows, this is full loath to me.

  But nevertheless without your knowing

  I will not act, but this I wish,” said he,

  ”That you to me assent in this thing.

  Show now your patience in your deeds

  That you me promised and swore in your village

  That day that made was our marriage.”

  When she had heard all this, she no motion made

  Neither in word nor manner nor countenance;

  For as it seemed, she was not aggrieved.

  She said, “Lord, all lies in your pleasure;

  My child and I with heartfelt obedience

  Be yours all, and you may save or destroy

  Your own thing: do as you wish.

  There may be no thing, God so my soul save;

  That pleases you that displeases me;

  Nor do I desire anything to have,

  Nor dread to lose, save only you;

  This wil is in myn herte and ay shal be.

  No lengthe of tyme or deeth may this deface,

  Ne chaunge my corage to another place.”

  Glad was this markis of hir answering,

  But yet he feyned as he were nat so;

  Al drery was his chere and his loking

  Whan that he sholde out of the chambre go.

  Sone after this, a furlong wey or two,

  He prively hath told al his entente

  Un-to a man, and to his wyf him sente.

  A maner sergeant was this privee man,

  The which that feithful ofte he founden hadde

  In thinges grete, and eek swich folk wel can

  Don execucioun on thinges badde.

  The lord knew wel that he him loved and dradde;

  And whan this sergeant wiste his lordes wille,

  In-to the chambre he stalked him ful stille.

  “Madame,” he seyde, “ye mote foryeve it me,

  Thogh I do thing to which I am constreyned;

  Ye ben so wys that ful wel knowe ye

  That lordes hestes mowe nat been y-feyned;

  They mowe wel been biwailled or compleyned,

  But men mot nede un-to her lust obeye,

  And so wol I; ther is na-more to seye.

  This child I am comanded for to take“—

  And spak na-more, but out the child he hente

  Despitously, and gan a chere make

  As though he wolde han slayn it er he wente.

  Grisildis mot al suffren and consente;

  And as a lamb she siteth meke and stille,

  And leet this cruel sergeant doon his wille.

  Suspecious was the diffame of this man,

  Suspect his face, suspect his word also;

  Suspect the tyme in which he this bigan.

  This will is in my heart and ever shall be.

  No length of time or death may this deface,

  Nor change my heart to another place.”

  Glad was this marquis for her answer,

  But yet he feigned as he were not so;

  All sad was his face and his look

  When he left the chamber.

  Soon after this, within a little while,

  He secretly told all his plan

  Unto a man, and sent him to his wife.

  A sergeant-at-arms was this trusted man,

  Whom often he had found faithful

  In things great, and also such folk well know

  How to perform in things bad.

  The lord well knew that he him loved and feared;

  And when this sergeant knew his lord’s will,

  Into the chamber he crept full silent and still.

  “Madame,” said he, “you must forgive me,

  Though I do something to which I am constrained.

  You be so wise that full well you know

  That lords’ wishes may not be avoided,

  They may well be bewailed or lamented,

  But men must unto their will obey,

  And so will I; there is no more to say.

  This child I am commanded for to take“—

  And spoke no more, but the child he seized

  Cruelly, and made

  As though he would slay it before he left.

  Griselda must all suffer and all consent;

  And as a lamb she sat meek and still,

  And let this cruel sergeant do his will.

  Suspect was the reputation of this man,

  Suspect his face, suspect his word also;

  Suspect the time in which he this began.

  Alias! hir doghter that she lovede so

  She wende he wolde han slawen it right tho.

  But natheles she neither weep ne syked,

  Consenting hir to that the markis lyked.

  But atte laste speken she bigan,

  And mekely she to the sergeant preyde,

  So as he was a worthy gentil man,

  That she moste kisse hir child er that it deyde;

  And in her barm this litel child she leyde

  With ful sad face, and gan the child to kisse

  And lulled it, and after gan it blisse.

  And thus she seyde in hir benigne voys,

  “Far weel, my child; I shal thee never see;

  But, sith I thee have marked with the croys,

  Of thilke fader blessed mote thou be,<
br />
  That for us deyde up-on a croys of tree.

  Thy soule, litel child, I him bitake,

  For this night shaltow dyen for my sake.”

  I trowe that to a norice in this cas

  It had ben hard this rewthe for to se;

  Wel mighte a mooder than han cryed “allas!”

  But nathelees so sad stedfast was she,

  That she endured all adversitee,

  And to the sergeant mekely she sayde,

  “Have heer agayn your litel yonge mayde.

  Goth now,” quod she, ”and dooth my lordes heste,

  But o thing wol I preye yow of your grace,

  That, but my lord forbad yow, atte leste

  Burieth this litel body in som place

  That bestes ne no briddes it to-race.”

  But he no word wol to that purpos seye,

  But took the child and wente upon his weye.

  This sergeant cam un-to his lord ageyn,

  And of Grisildis wordes and hir chere

  Alas! her daughter that she loved so,

  She thought he would have slain it right then.

  But nevertheless she neither wept nor sighed,

  Conforming herself to what the marquis liked.

  But finally to speak she began,

  And meekly she to the sergeant begged,

  So as he was a worthy gentleman,

  That she might kiss her child before it died;

  And in her lap this little child she laid

  With a full sad face, and began the child to bless

  And lulled it, and after began it to kiss.

  And thus she said in her gracious voice,

  “Farewell, my child; I shall you never see.

  But since I have marked you with the cross