Chapter IX: Part V

In order to put the last trial upon Griselda, to the uttermost proof of her courage, the marquis one day, before all the household, said to her in a boisterous way--

Certes, Grisildes, I had y-nough plesaunce certainly,
pleasure
To have yow to my wif, for your goodnesse
And for youre trouthe, and for your obeissaunce; truth, obedience
Nought for your lignage, ne for your richesse; lineage, wealth
But now know I in verray sothfastnesse truth
That in gret lordschip, if I wel avyse, am not mistaken
Ther is gret servitude in sondry wyse. sundry wise

I may not do, as every ploughman may;
My poeple me constreignith for to take constrain
Another wyf, and crien day by day;
And eek the Pope, rancour for to slake,
Consentith it, that dar I undertake; dare
And trewely, thus moche I wol yow saye, much
My newe wif is comyng by the waye.

Be strong of hert, and voyde anoon hir place, heart
And thilke dower that ye broughten me that
Tak it agayn, I graunt it of my grace.
Retourneth to your fadres hous, quod he, return
No man may alway have prosperité,
With even hert I rede yow endure advise
The strok of fortune or of adventure. chance

And sche agayn answerd in paciènce:
My lord, quod sche, I wot, and wist alway,
How that bitwixe your magnificence
And my poverté, no wight can ne may nobody
Make comparisoun, it is no nay;
I ne held me neuer digne in no manere worthy, manner
To ben your wif, ne yit your chamberere. chambermaid

And in this hous, ther ye me lady made,
(The highe God take I for my witnesse,
And al-so wisly he my soule glade) cheer
I never huld me lady ne maistresse,
But humble servaunt to your worthinesse,
And ever schal, whil that my lyf may dure, life
Aboven every worldly creature. above

That ye so longe of your benignité benignity
Han holden me in honour and nobleye, nobleness
Wher as I was not worthy for to be, where
That thonk I God and yow, to whom I preye thank
For-yeld it yow, ther is no more to seye. repay
Unto my fader gladly wil I wende, go
And with him duelle unto my lyves ende.

Ther I was fostred as a child ful smal,
Til I be deed my lyf ther wil I lede,
A widow clene in body, hert, and al: clean
For sith I yaf to yow my maydenhede, since, maidenhood
And am your trewe wyf, it is no drede,
God schilde such a lordes wyf to take shield (forbid)
Another man to housbond or to make. for, for mate

And of your newe wif, God of his grace
So graunte yow wele and prosperité,
For I wol gladly yelden hir my place, yield
In which that I was blisful wont to be.
For sith it liketh yow, my lord, quod sche,
That whilom were al myn hertes reste, once
That I schal gon, I wol go whan yow leste. please

But ther as ye profre me such dowayre proffer
As I ferst brought, it is wel in my mynde,
It were my wrecchid clothes, no thing faire, wretched
The whiche to me were hard now for to fynde.
O goode God! how gentil and how kynde
Ye semede by your speche and your visage, speech
That day that maked was our mariage! made

“Tis true, Griselda, I was once content
To marry you--because you were so good,
And true, and faithful, and obedient--
Not for your wealth, nor for your noble blood;
Still one thing must be clearly understood,
That in this rank and riches men so praise
There is great servitude in many ways.

“I may not do as every ploughman may:
My people urge me evermore to take
Another wife, and clamour day by day.
And now the Pope, their rancour swift to slake,
Gives glad consent to any change I make;
And more than that--I need not fear to say--
My new wife is already on her way.

Make way for her, be brave, give up her place,
And, see, the dowry that you brought to me
I will restore--I grant it of my grace.
Go back unto your father’s house,” quoth he,
“No one can always have prosperity.
With equal spirit suffer weal or woe,
The gifts of chance or luck that come and go.”

And she replied, with perfect patience:
“My lord, I know, and knew alway,” quoth she,
“Too well, that ’tween your own magnificence
And my great poverty, there cannot be
Comparison at all, and verily
I held myself unworthy every way
To be your wife--or servant--for a day.

“And in this house wherein ye made me great
(High God my witness, who shall haply set
Some coming comfort in my altered state),
Lady nor mistress never was I yet;
But humble servant to the grace I get:
This I shall be, with spirit ever strong,
More than all others, yea, my whole life long.

“And for your charity in keeping me
In dignity and honour day by day
So many years, unworthy though I be,
Now thank I God and you, to whom I pray
That He will all your graciousness repay.
Unto my father cheerfully I wend
To dwell with him from now to my life’s end.

“There I was fostered as an infant small,
There till I die my life I will lead through,
Dwell as an honest widow, heart and all.
For since I gave my girlhood unto you,
And am your wife, most loving and most true,
It were not fitting that a great lord’s wife
Should wed another husband all her life.

“And with your wife to be, God of his grace
Grant you all welfare and prosperity;
For I will yield her cheerfully my place,
In which I once so happy used to be;
For since it pleaseth you, my lord,” quoth she,
“Who ever were the dearest to my heart,
That I should go, content I will depart.

“But when you bid me take again that dower
That I first brought, it still is in my mind:
It was my wretched clothing, coarse and poor--
Rags that it were not easy now to find.
And, O good God! how gentle and how kind
You then seemed, by your words and by your look,
That day whereon the name of wife I took!”

Griselda said no word of reproach to her cruel husband, except one touching remark, which he may have felt as one--

“Love is not old as when that it is new.” (Love is not the same in after years as when it first comes.)

Then she appeals to him in a way that must have touched a heart of stone, for she saw no sign of relenting in his face: she does not know how far his brutality will go, and will not be surprised at the last insult.

My lord, ye wot that in my fadres place
Ye dede me strippe out of my pore wede, strip, attire
And richely me cladden of your grace;
To yow brought I nought elles, out of drede, else
But faith, and nakednesse, and maydenhede; maidenhood
And her agayn my clothyng I restore,
And eek my weddyng ryng for evermore.

The remenant of your jewels redy be remainder
Within your chambur, dar I saufly sayn. dare
Naked out of my fadres hous, quod sche,
I com, and naked moot I torne agayn. return
Al your pleisauns wold I folwen fayn;[153] follow gladly
But yit I hope it be not youre entente, intention
That I smocles out of your paleys wente. smockless, palace

“My lord, you know that in my father’s place
You stript me of my poor attire, for ruth:
Anew you richly clad me, of your grace.
And I brought nothing unto you, in truth,
But honesty, and poverty, and youth.
And here again your clothing I restore,
And ev’n your wedding-ring for evermore.

“The remnant of your jewels ready be
Within your chamber, I can safely say.
With nothing from my father’s house,” quoth she,
“I came, with nothing I shall go away.
In all things as you bid I will obey;
But yet I hope you will not let me go
Quite as bereft as when I came to you.”

A faint sparkle of human spirit comes into her entreaty--“Ye could not do so dishonest (shameful) a thing:”--

Remembre yow, myn oughne lord so deere, own
I was your wyf, though I unworthy were.

Wherfor, in guerdoun of my maydenhede, girlhood
Which that I brought, and not agayn I bere, carry away
As vouchethsauf as yeve me to my meede vouchsafe, reward
But such a smok as I was wont to were. smock, wear

“Remember yet, my lord and husband dear,
I was your wife, though I unworthy were!

“Thus, in requital of the youth I brought,
But never can take back, nor have it more,
Give me, I pray, a garment of such sort
As in those days of poverty I wore.”

Walter accepts this humble claim; mark the calm dignity with which she refrains from giving way before her ‘folk.’

The smok,[154] quod he, that thou hast on thy bak, smock
Let it be stille, and ber it forth with the.
But wel unnethes thilke word he spak, scarcely, this
But went his way for routhe and for pité. compassion
Byforn the folk hirselven strippith sche, herself
And in hir smok, with heed and foot al bare, head and feet
Toward hir fader house forth is she fare. went

The folk hir folwen wepyng in hir weye, follow her
And fortune ay thay cursen as thay goon; curse
But she fro wepyng kept hir eyen dreye, dry
Ne in this tyme word ne spak sche noon. none
Hir fader, that this tyding herd anoon,
Cursede the day and tyme that nature
Schoop him to ben a lyves creäture. formed, living

For oute of doute this olde pore man
Was ever in suspect of hir mariage; suspicion
For ever he deemede, sith that it bigan, believed
That whan the lord fulfilled had his corrage, impulse
Him wolde thinke that it were disparage disparagement
To his estate, so lowe for to lighte,
And voyden hire as sone as ever he mighte. put her away

Agayns his doughter hastily goth he goeth
(For he by noyse of folk knew hir comyng),
And with hir olde cote, as it might be, coat
He covered hir, ful sorwfully wepynge, sorrowfully
But on hir body might he it nought bringe,
For rude was the cloth, and mor of age, coarse, more
By dayes fele than at hir mariage. many (_viel_)

Thus with hir fader for a certeyn space
Dwellith this flour of wifly pacience, flower
That neyther by hir wordes, ne by hir face,
Byforn the folk nor eek in her absence, also, their
Ne schewed sche that hir was doon offence; showed, done
Ne of hir highe astaat no remembraunce nor, estate
Ne hadde she, as by hir countenaunce.

“The shift,” he said, “thou hast upon thy back,
Let it remain, and bear it forth with thee.”
But scarcely that hard word for pain he spake,
And went his way for sorrow and pity.
Before the household all her robes stript she;
And in her shift, barefoot and bare of head,
Toward her father’s house forth is she sped.

The household follow, tears in every eye,
Bewailing her ill-fortune as they go;
But she from weeping kept her own eyes dry,
Nor spake a word to those who murmur’d so.
Her father heard the news awhile ago,
And sore laments the day that he was born,
To be a thing so helpless and forlorn.

For ever without doubt the poor old man
Distrusted heartily her altered rank;
Believing inly since it first began,
That when my lord had wearied of his prank,
He would conceive it far beneath his rank
To have a low-born wife, however good,
And rid himself of her whene’er he could.

Unto his daughter hastily he goes,
(For by the noise of crowds he knew her nigh),
And her old garb about her form he throws,
And covers her, with tears and many a sigh,
But could not draw it round her properly,
For coarse and shrunk the cloth was--worse for age
By many days, than at her marriage.

Thus with her father for a certain space
Did dwell this flower of wifely patience;
And neither by her speech nor by her face,
Before the folk, nor e’en in their absènce,
Seem’d she to feel that she endured offence.
As far as any living soul could see
She had of her past state no memory.

And after all it was scarce any wonder. For in her days of wealth her spirit had always been humble and meek. No dainty fare, no foolish pomp or luxury, no semblance of splendid rank, had she allowed herself; but, ever wise and humble and firm, when reverses came she was ready to bear them.

Men speak of Job’s patience; but, though some praise women little enough, no man can be as patient as a woman can--no man be faithful as a woman can.