Of our Father, blessed may he be,
Who for us died upon a cross.
Your soul, little child, to him I commend,
For this night shall you die for my sake.”
I believe that to a nurse in this case
It would have been hard this pitiful sight to see;
Well might a mother have then cried “alas!”
But nevertheless so firmly steadfast was she
That she endured all adversity,
And to the sergeant meekly she said,
“Have here again your little young maid.
Go now,” said she, ”and do my lord’s wish.
But one thing will I pray you of your grace,
That, unless my lord forbid it you, at least
Bury this little body in some place
Where no beasts nor birds tear it to pieces.”
But he no word to that purpose said,
But took the child and went upon his way.
This sergeant came unto his lord again,
And of Griselda’s words and her behavior
He tolde him point for point, in short and playn,
And him presenteth with his doghter dere.
Somwhat this lord hath rewthe in his manere;
But nathelees his purpos heeld he stille,
As lordes doon, whan they wol han hir wille;
And bad his sergeant that he prively
Sholde this child ful softe winde and wrappe
With alle circumstances tendrely,
And carie it in a cofre or in a lappe;
But, up-on peyne his heed of for to swappe,
That no man sholde knowe of his entente,
Ne whenne he cam, ne whider that he wente;
But at Boloigne to his suster dere,
That thilke tyme of Panik was countesse,
He sholde it take, and shewe hir this matere,
Bisekinge hir to don hir bisinesse
This child to fostre in alle gentilesse;
And whos child that it was he bad hir hyde
From every wight, for oght that may bityde.
The sergeant gooth, and hath fulfild this thing;
But to this markis now retourne we;
For now goth he ful faste imagining
If by his wyves chere he mighte see,
Or by hir word aperceyve that she
Were chaunged; but he never hir coude finde
But ever in oon y-lyke sad and kinde.
As glad, as humble, as bisy in servyse,
And eek in love as she was wont to be,
Was she to him in every maner wyse;
Ne of hir doghter noght a word spak she.
Non accident for noon adversitee
Was seyn in hir, ne never hir doghter name
Ne nempned she, in ernest nor in game.
He told him point for point, in short and plain,
And presented to him his daughter dear.
This lord showed some pity in his manner,
But nevertheless his purpose held he still,
As lords do when they will have their will.
And bade this sergeant that he secretly
Should this child soft wind and wrap
Tenderly in every way,
And carry it in a box or a sling;
But upon pain of having his head chopped,
That no man should know of his intent,
Nor whence he came, nor whither he went;
But at Bologna to his sister dear,
Who at that time was of Panico countess,
He should take it, and explain to her this matter,
Beseeching her to do her best,
This child to foster in all gentleness;
And whose child it was he bade her hide
From every man, no matter what might betide.
The sergeant went, and had fulfilled this thing;
But to this marquis now return we.
For now he went full fast wondering
If by his wife’s expression he might see,
Or by her word perceive, that she
Were changed; but he found her
Ever steadfast and kind.
As glad, as humble, as busy in service,
And also in love as she was accustomed to be,
Was she to him in every way;
Nor of her daughter a word spoke she.
No outward sign of any adversity
Was seen in her, nor ever her daughter’s name
Spoke she, in earnest or in play.
PART FOUR
In this estaat ther passed been foure yeer
Er she with childe was; but, as god wolde,
A knave child she bar by this Walter,
Ful gracious and fair for to biholde.
And whan that folk it to his fader tolde,
Nat only he, but al his contree, merie
Was for this child, and god they thanke and herie.
Whan it was two yeer old, and fro the brest
Departed of his norice, on a day
This markis caughte yet another lest
To tempte his wyf yet ofter, if he may.
O needles was she tempted in assay!
But wedded men ye knowe no mesure,
Whan that they finde a pacient creature.
“Wyf,” quod this markis, “ye han herd er this,
My peple sikly berth our mariage,
And namely, sith my sone y-boren is,
Now is it worse than ever in al our age.
The murmur sleeth myn herte and my corage;
For to myne eres comth the voys so smerte,
That it wel ny destroyed hath myn herte.
Now sey they thus, ‘whan Walter is agoon,
Then shal the blood of Janicle succede
And been our lord, for other have we noon;’
Swiche wordes seith my peple, out of drede,
Wel oughte I of swich murmur taken hede;
For certeinly I drede swich sentence,
Though they nat pleyn speke in myn audience.
I wolde live in pees, if that I mighte;
Wherfor I am disposed outerly,
As I his suster servede by nighte,
Right so thenke I to serve him prively;
This warne I yow, that ye nat sodeynly
PART FOUR
In this condition there passed four years
Before she with child was; but, as God willed,
A boy child she bore by this Walter,
Full gracious and handsome to behold.
And when his father learned of his birth,
Not only he, but all his country, was merry
For this child, and God they thanked and praised.
When it was two years old and from the breast
Departed of his nurse, on a day
This marquis conceived yet another desire
To tempt his wife again, if he may.
Oh, needlessly was she put to the test!
But wedded men know no measure
When that they find a patient creature.
“Wife,” said this marquis, “you have heard before this,
My people bear ill our marriage,
And especially, since my son is born,
Now it is worse than ever in all our days.
The murmur slays my heart and spirit,
For to my ears comes the voice so sharp
That it has well nigh destroyed my heart.
Now they say thus, ‘When Walter is gone,
Then shall the blood of Janicula succeed
And be our Lord, for other we have none;’
Such words say my people, without doubt.
Well ought I of such murmur take heed,
For certainly, I dread such opinion,
Though they speak it not in my hearing.
I would live in peace if I might;
Wherefore I am disposed entirely,
As I his sister dealt with by night,
Right so I think to take care of hi
m in secret.
This I warn you, that you do not suddenly
Out of your-self for no wo sholde outraye;
Beth pacient, and ther-of I yow preye.”
“I have,” quod she, “seyd thus, and ever shal,
I wol no thing, ne nil no thing, certayn,
But as yow list; noght greveth me at al,
Thogh that my doghter and my sone be slayn,
At your comandement, this is to sayn.
I have noght had no part of children tweyne
But first siknesse, and after wo and peyne.
Ye been our lord, doth with your owene thing
Right as yow list; axeth no reed at me.
For, as I lefte at hoom al my clothing,
Whan I first cam to yow, right so,” quod she,
”Lefte I my wil and al my libertee,
And took your clothing; wherfor I yow preye,
Doth your plesaunce, I wol your lust obeye.
And certes, if I hadde prescience
Your wil to knowe er ye your lust me tolde,
I wolde it doon with-outen necligence;
But now I woot your lust and what ye wolde,
Al your plesaunce ferme and stable I holde;
For wiste I that my deeth wolde do yow ese,
Right gladly wolde I dyen, yow to plese.
Deth may noght make no comparisoun
Un-to your love:” and, whan this markis sey
The constance of his wyf, he caste adoun
His yën two, and wondreth that she may
In pacience suffre al this array.
And forth he gooth with drery contenaunce,
But to his herte it was ful greet plesaunce.
This ugly sergeant, in the same wyse
That he hir doghter caughte, right so he,
Or worse, if men worse can devyse,
Hath hent hir sone, that ful was of beautee.
Lose control of yourself in sorrow:
Be patient, and thereof I pray you.”
“I have,” said she, “said thus, and ever shall,
I desire nothing, certainly,
Unless it pleases you; it grieves me not at all,
Though my daughter and my son be slain—
At your commandment, this is to say.
I have had no part of children two
But first childbearing, and after woe and pain.
You be our lord, do with your own thing
Right as you wish, ask no advice from me.
For as I left at home all my clothing
When I first came to you, right so,” said she,
”Left I my will and all my liberty,
And took your clothing. Wherefore I you pray,
Do your pleasure, I will your desire obey.
And certainly, if I had prescience
Your will to know before you told it to me,
I would do it without negligence.
But now I know your pleasure and what you will,
All your desire firmly and steadfastly I hold;
For if I knew my death would do you ease,
Right gladly would I die, you to please.
Death may not make comparison
With your love.” And when this marquis saw
The constancy of his wife, he cast down
His eyes two, and wondered that she could
In patience suffer all these events.
And forth he went with doleful countenance,
But to his heart it was full great pleasant.
This fearsome sergeant, in the same way
That he her daughter took away, right so he—
Or worse, if men can devise—
Had seized her son, who was full of beauty.
And ever in oon so pacient was she,
That she no chere made of hevinesse,
But kiste hir sone, and after gan it blesse;
Save this; she preyed him that, if he mighte,
Hir litel sone he wolde in erthe grave,
His tendre limes, delicat to sighte,
Fro foules and fro bestes for to save.
But she non answer of him mighte have.
He wente his wey, as him no-thing ne roghte;
But to Boloigne he tendrely it broghte.
This markis wondreth ever lenger the more
Up-on hir pacience, and if that he
Ne hadde soothly knowen ther-bifore,
That parfitly hir children lovede she,
He wolde have wend that of som subtiltee,
And of malice or for cruel corage,
That she had suffred this with sad visage.
But wel he knew that next him-self, certayn,
She loved hir children best in every wyse.
But now of wommen wolde I axen fayn,
If thise assayes mighte nat suffyse?
What coude a sturdy housbond more devyse
To preve hir wyfhod and hir stedfastnesse,
And he continuing ever in sturdinesse?
But ther ben folk of swich condicioun,
That, whan they have a certein purpos take,
They can nat stinte of hir entencioun,
But, right as they were bounden to a stake,
They wol nat of that firste purpos slake.
Right so this markis fulliche hath purposed
To tempte his wyf, as he was first disposed.
He waiteth, if by word or contenance
That she to him was changed of corage;
But never coude he finde variance;
And ever and always so patient was she
That she no expression made of heaviness,
But kissed her son, and after began him to bless.
Save this: she prayed the sergeant that he might
Her little son in the earth bury,
To save his tender limbs, delicate to see,
From birds and beasts.
But she no answer from him received.
He went on his way, as though he cared not at all,
But to Bologna he brought it tenderly.
This marquis wondered ever more
Upon her patience, and if he
Had not truly known before
How perfectly her children loved she,
He would have thought that it was by some trick,
Or through a cruel heart,
That she suffered this with unchanged face.
But well he knew that next to himself, certainly,
She loved her children best in every way.
But now of women would I like to ask,
If these trials might not suffice?
What could a cruel husband more devise
To test her wifehood and her steadfastness,
And he continuing even with cruelty?
But there be folk of such disposition
Who, when they have a certain course taken,
They cannot stop short of their destination;
But just as if they were bound to a stake,
They will not of that first purpose slake.
Right so this marquis fully has intended
To tempt his wife as he was first disposed.
He watched if by word or countenance
That she to him was changed in her heart,
But never could he find variance:
She was ay oon in herte and in visage;
And ay the forther that she was in age,
The more trewe, if that it were possible,
She was to him in love, and more penible.
For which it semed thus, that of hem two
Ther nas but o wil; for, as Walter leste,
The same lust was hir plesance also,
And, god be thanked, al fil for the beste.
She shewed wel, for no worldly unreste
A wyf, as of hir-self, no-thing ne sholde
Wille in effect, but as hir housbond wolde.
The sclaundre of Walter ofte and wyde spradde,
That of a cruel herte he wikkedly,
For he a povre womman wedded hadde,
Hath mordred bothe his children prively.
Swich murmur was among hem comunly.
No wonder is, for to the peples ere
Ther cam no word but that they mordred were.
For which, wher-as his peple ther-bifore
Had loved him wel, the sclaundre of his diffame
Made hem that they him hatede therfore;
To been a mordrer is an hateful name.
But natheles, for ernest ne for game
He of his cruel purpos nolde stente;
To tempte his wyf was set al his entente.
Whan that his doghter twelf yeer was of age,
He to the court of Rome, in subtil wyse
Enformed of his wil, sente his message,
Comaunding hem swiche bulles to devyse
As to his cruel purpos may suffyse,
How that the pope, as for his peples reste,
Bad him to wedde another, if him leste.
I seye, he bad they sholde countrefete
The popes bulles, making mencioun
She was ever unchanged in heart and visage.
And ever the older that she was in age,
The more true, if that were possible,
She was to him in love, and more painstaking.
For which it seemed thus, that for them both
There was but one will; for, as Walter wished,
That same desire was her pleasure also;
And, God be thanked, all turned out for the best.
She showed well that for no earthly distress
A wife, for her own sake, should nothing
Canterbury Tales (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) Page 40
