At last the Earl of Panik arrived, whose fame had been spreading among
great and small. The people had all found out that he was bringing them a
new marchioness, in such pomp and state, that never before had a like
splendour been seen throughout West Lombardy.
The marquis, who had arranged all these things, sent for this poor
innocent Griselda; and she came with humble mind and joyful face, and no
proud notions in her heart, and knelt before him and asked his will.
“Griselda,” he said, “my will is that the maiden whom I am to marry be
received here as royally as it is possible in my house to be, and that
everybody, according to his degree, shall be made thoroughly welcome and
happy. I have no woman able to arrange my rooms fully to my liking, and
therefore I want you to take everything in hand. You know of old my ways
and my tastes; therefore, though your dress _is_ ragged and you look very
bad, you must do your duties to the very best of your power.”
Griselda answered, “Not only, lord, am I glad to do anything for you, but
I love you enough to work all my days to please you.”
And with that worde sche gan the hous to dighte,
And tables for to sette, and beddes make:
And with that word she ’gan the house to deck,
To set the tables and to make the beds:
begging all the chambermaids to hasten and hurry and shake and sweep
smartly; and she, most serviceable of them all, got every chamber and the
great hall garnished and adorned.
Abouten undern gan this lord alighte, forenoon
That with him broughte these noble children tweye; two
For which the peple ran to se that sighte
Of hir array, so richely biseye; rich to be seen
And than at erst amonges hem thay seye at first
That Walter was no fool, though that hem leste he pleased
To chaunge his wyf; for it was for the beste.
For sche is fairer, as thay demen alle, deem
Than is Grisild, and more tendre of age. younger
Somewhat ere noonday did this earl alight,
Who with him brought the unknown children fair,
And all the people ran to see the sight
Of their array, resplendent as they were;
And soon the common thought was whispered there,
That Walter was no fool for being glad
To change his wife--a good exchange he had!
For she is fairer, as they notice all,
Than is Griselda, tenderer of age.
And the throngs of admiring serfs stood making their light remarks,
forgetful of the victim of it all, and her undeserved disgrace. They watch
the fair bride and the handsome boy beside her, and every moment the
marquis seems to get more popular.
O stormy poeple, unsad and ever untrewe, unsteady
And undiscret and chaunging as a fane, indiscreet
Delytyng ever in rombel that is newe, noise
For lik the moone ay waxe ye and wane,
Ay ful of clappyng, dere ynough a jane,[155] chattering
Youre doom is fals, your constaunce yvil previth, judgment, ill
proveth
A ful gret fool is he that on yow leevith. believeth
O stormy people, light, and ever untrue,
And undiscerning--changing as a fane,
Delighting in new noise, because ’tis new,
How like the moon do ye, too, wax and wane!
Your empty praise, like worthless coin, is vain:
False is your judgment, frail your constancy,
Who trusts to you--a full great fool is he.
That is what the graver people in the city said when the populace were
gazing up and down, glad for the novelty, to have a new lady in the
castle.
Meanwhile Griselda was working busily at everything that was needed for
the feast. She was nothing abashed at her clothing, though it was rude and
coarse, and somewhat torn besides. She went to the gate with the rest to
salute the bride, and hurried back at once to her work.
She received every one cheerfully, and in such a manner that no one had a
fault to find with her; but some of them wondered who this woman was, in
such shabby clothes, but who behaved with so much grace and propriety; and
many praised her diligence and wisdom.
When all the great lords were about to sit down to supper, Walter called
to Griselda, who was working in the hall.
Grisyld, quod he, as it were in his play,
How likith the my wif and hir beauté? do you like
Right wel, my lord, quod sche, for in good fay faith
A fairer saugh I never noon than sche. none
I pray to God yive hir prosperité;
And so hope I that he wol to yow sende
Plesaunce ynough unto your lyves ende. pleasantness
On thing biseke I yow, and warne also,[156] beseech
That ye ne prike with no tormentynge prick
This tendre mayden, as ye han doon mo: more (others)
For she is fostrid in hir norischinge fostered,
nourishing
More tendrely, and to my supposyng: as I suppose
Sche couthe not adversité endure,
As couthe a pore fostrid creature. could, poorly
And whan this Walter saugh hir pacience,
Hir glade cheer, and no malice at al,
And he so oft hadde doon to hir offence,
And sche ay sad, and constant as a wal, steady
Continuyng ever hir innocence overal:
This sturdy marquis gan his herte dresse direct
To rewen upon hir wyfly stedefastnesse. to pity
This is ynough, Grisilde myn, quod he,
Be now no more agast, ne yvel apayed, afraid,
disappointed
I have thy faith and thy benignité, goodness
As wel as ever womman was, assayed essayed
In gret estate, and pourliche[157] arrayed. poorly
Now knowe I, dere wyf, thy stedefastnesse.
And hir in armes took and gan hir kesse. kiss
And sche for wonder took of it no keepe, heed
Sche herde not what thing he to hir sayde,
Sche ferd as sche hadde stert out of a sleepe, fared, started
Til sche out of hir masidnesse abrayde. awoke
Grisild, quod he, by God that for us deyde, died
Thou art my wyf, non other I ne[158] have,
Ne never had, as God my soule save.
This is thy[159] doughter, which thou hast supposed
To be my wif: that other faithfully
Shal be myn heir, as I have ay purposed.
Thow bar hem of thy body trewely.
At Boloyne have I kept hem prively.
Tak hem agayn, for now maistow not seye mayest thou
That thou hast lorn noon of thy children tweye. lost
And folk, that other weyes han seyd of me,
I warn hem wel, that I have doon this deede done
For no malice, ne for no cruelté,
But for tassaye in thee thy wommanhede; to assay,
womanhood
And not to slen my children (God forbede!) forbid
But for to kepe hem prively and stille quietly
Til I thy purpos knewe, and al thy wille!
“Grisild,” he said to her, as if in play,
“How seems my wife and her fair looks to thee?”
“Right well, my lord,” said she, “for in good fay
I never saw a fairer bride than she;
I pray God give you both prosperity;
And so I hope that He will ever send
You happiness enough to your lives’ end.
“One thing I pray of you, and warn beside,
That you goad not with any torturing
This tender maid--like some you have sore tried
For she is nurtured in her upbringing
More tenderly--and such a gentle thing
Might haply not adversity endure
Like one whose nurture had been hard and poor.”
And when this Walter saw her patientness,
Her cheerful mien, and malice none at all;
Though he so oft had tried her more or less,
And she still firm and constant as a wall,
Continuing ever her innocence over all:
This sturdy marquis ’gan his heart to chide,
Touch’d by her steadfast faith that never died.
“This is enough, Griselda mine,” said he,
“Be no more ill at ease, and fear no more!
I have thy faith and strength and charity
Tempted, as woman never was before,
Both in thy wealth, and in thy rags so poor.
Now do I know, dear wife, thy steadfastness:”
And clasp’d her in his arms with many a kiss.
But she for wonder took no heed of him,
She heard not any of the words he spoke,
She seemed as one that starteth from a dream
Till she from her astonishment awoke.
“Griselde,” cried he, “it was a cruel joke:
Thou art my wife, none other one I have,
Nor ever had--as God my soul shall save!
“This is thy daughter, whom thou hast supposed
To be my wife--that other faithfully
Shall be my heir, as I have long disposed;
For they are both thy children, verily.
I kept them at Bologna privily.
Take them again, thou canst not say, as once,
Thou hast lost either of thy little ones.
“And folk, who otherwise have said of me,
I warn them well that I have acted thus,
Neither in malice nor in cruelty,
Solely to prove thy patience marvellous,
And not to slay my babes (God hinder us!)
But to conceal them secretly apart
Until I learned thy purpose and thy heart!”
You may fancy you see Griselda at this moment, standing in her rags before
the glittering company, and her brain dazed with wondering whether this
were some new freak, or the truth that brought unheard-of joy. But nature
had been taxed too far, and all her courage could not bear up against the
shock.
Whan sche this herd, aswone doun she fallith, in a swoon
For pitous joy, and after her swownyng swooning
Sche bothe hir yonge children to hir callith,
And in hir armes, pitously wepyng,
Embraseth hem, and tendrely kissyng,
Ful lik a moder, with hir salte teres tears
Sche bathide bothe hir visage and hir heres.[159] their hair
When she heard this, all senseless down she falleth,
For piteous joy--and half unconsciously
Both her young children unto her she calleth,
And in her arms, weeping so piteously,
Embraceth them, with kisses tenderly,
Full like a mother, and the tears she sheds
Bathe the fair faces and the dear loved heads.
Piteous it was to hear her humble voice, thanking Walter so fervently.
“_Graunt mercy_, lord, God thank you,” cried she, “for saving me my
children. Now I care not how soon I die, since your love has come back to
me.
O tendre, O dere, O yonge children myne,[160]
Youre woful moder wende stedefastly believed
That cruel houndes or som foul vermyne wild dogs
Had eten yow: but God of his mercy,
And your benigne fader tenderly
Hath doon yow kepe. And in that same stounde preserved you,
moment
Al sodeinly sche swapped doun to grounde. sank
And in hir swough so sadly holdith sche swoon, firmly
Hir children tuo, whan sche gan hem tembrace, to embrace them
That with gret sleight and gret difficulté skill
The children from her arm they gonne arace. tear away
O! many a teer on many a pitous face
Doun ran of hem that stooden hir bisyde, down, stood,
beside
Unnethe aboute hir mighte thay abyde. hardly
Waltier hir gladith, and hir sorwe slakith, cheers, sorrow
Sche rysith up abaisshed from hir traunce, abashed
And every wight hir joy and feste makith, everybody
Til sche hath caught agayn hir continaunce; countenance
Wauter hir doth so faithfully plesaunce, comforts her
That it was daynté for to see the cheere dainty
Bitwix hem tuo, now thay be met in feere. company
These ladys, whan that thay hir tyme save, their, saw
Han taken hir, and into chambre goon, have
And strippen hir out of hir rude arraye,
And in a cloth of gold that brighte schon, shone
With a coroun of many a riche stoon crown, stone
Upon hir heed, they into hallo hir broughte,
And ther sche was honoured as hir oughte. she ought to be
Thus hath this pitous day a blisful ende;
For every man and womman doth his might best
This day in mirth and revel to despende,
Til on the welken schon the sterres brighte; welkin
For more solempne in every mannes sighte stately, man’s
This feste was, and gretter of costage, greater, cost
Than was the revel of hir mariage.
“O young, O dear, O tender children mine,
Your hapless mother thought in all her wo
That cruel beasts of prey and foul vermine
Had slain you both; but God had mercy--lo!
He and your loving father will’d it so
That you should be preserved:” and said no more,
But suddenly fell fainting on the floor.
And in her swoon so closely holdeth she
Her new-found children in a strong embrace.
That those around unclasp not easily
The fingers which so firmly interlace:
O! many a tear on many a pitying face
Ran down in token of deep sympathy--
Scarce could they bear to watch her agony.
Walter consoleth her as she awaketh:
She riseth up bewildered from her trance:
Each presseth round about and merry maketh
Until she hath recovered countenance.
With kisses and with loving word and glance
Walter doth cheer her--sweet it was to see
The joy they felt--united happily.
And when they saw their time, these ladies gay
Unto a chamber led her forth with them,
And stript her out of all her rude array,
And in apparel bright with many a gem
Clad her, and, crownëd with a diadem
Upon her head, they brought her to the hall,
Where she was meetly honoured of them all.
Thus hath this piteous day a blissful end,
Till every man and woman in the rout
Striveth the day in mirth and glee to spend,
Till in the darken’d sky the stars shone out;
For greater and more sumptuous, without doubt,
This revel was--and there was more to pay--
Than the rejoicings on her marriage-day.
Thus dwelt, for many years after, Walter and his wife in peace and joy;
and I hope that the suffering of that day was the last Griselda had to
bear at the hands of her capricious and wilful spouse. The pretty daughter
Walter married to one of the greatest lords in Italy; and he then brought
Griselda’s old father to dwell in peace and comfort in his own court.
His son succeeded to his state and rank, and married happily, though he
did not tempt and torment his wife as Walter did; for the world is not so
strong as it once was, and people cannot bear such treatment now!
The story is told, not that wives should imitate Griselda in humility, for
it would be unbearable, even if they did; but that every one in his degree
should be constant in adversity as Griselda was. For if one woman could be
so submissive to a mortal man, how much more ought we to take patiently
all that God sends as our lot in life.
But one word before I stop! It would be hard to find in a whole city
three, or even two, Griseldas nowadays. The gold in their nature is now so
mixed with base metal that in any great trial the coin would sooner break
than bend.
Grisild is deed, and eek hir pacience, also
And bothe at oones buried in Itayle; once
For whiche I crye in open audience
No weddid man so hardy be to assayle
His wyves pacience, in hope to fynde
Grisildes, for in certeyn he schal fayle.
Dead is Griselda, and her patience,
Both buried in one grave in Italy;
So I entreat in open audience
No wedded man be rash enough to try
His own wife’s patience, in the hope to find
Griselda’s, for he’ll fail most certainly!
Notes by the Way
The tender pathos in Chaucer’s telling of this story (which he borrowed
from Petrarch, but which is really much older than his time), cannot be
excelled in any story we know of. The definite human interest running all
through it points to some living Griselda, but who she was, or where she
came from, no one knows. Resignation, so steadfast and so willing, was the
virtue of an early time, when the husband was really a ‘lord and master’;
and such submission in a woman of the present civilization would be rather
mischievous than meritorious. If a modern wife cheerfully consented to the
murder of her children by her spouse, she would probably be consigned to a
_maison de santé_, while her husband expiated his sins on the scaffold;
and if she endured other persecutions, such as Griselda did, it is to be
hoped some benevolent outsider would step in, if only to prevent cruelty
to animals.
But it must be remembered that in the old world wives held a very
different position in society, and the obedience of all the household to
the lord of the castle was the chief secret of peace, discipline, and
unity, as obedience to the captain of a vessel is now. We may also infer,
from many hints in this Tale, the admiration felt for that kind of
self-command in which people of a ruder time were so deficient. When
almost everybody gave way habitually to violent emotions of all sorts,
those who could rein in feeling were held in high esteem. Perhaps Walter
himself may not have been wantonly cruel, but only so bewildered by these
unaccustomed virtues that he could not trust their sincerity without
experiments.[161]
Chaucer seems to me to have devoted especial pains to the Clerk’s Tale,
relating it in the same careful versification as the history of the pious
Constance (Man of Law’s Tale), the holy St. Cecilia (second Nonne’s Tale),
and the Prioress’s Tale--all religious, and undoubtedly written _con
amore_.
The story of Griselda winds up with real artistic power, the Clerk
concluding with an ironical little song addressed to ordinary wives, so as
to leave his hearers laughing, instead of depressed by the inadequate
reward of patient Grizel’s virtues. This little song consists of six
beautiful verses, of six lines only each, and in which every line rhymes
with the corresponding line in the five other verses. Clearly great labour
has been lavished on it--but I have not included it, as the ironical
directions to wives to be _bad_ wives would be probably not understood by
a child, and superfluous if they were.
The Franklin’s Tale.
Mine host would not suffer long delay between the stories; and as soon as
the last story was at an end, he called upon the Franklin to begin.
In Armorike,[162] that is called Brittany, there was a knight named
Arviragus, who loved the lady Dorigene. Much he laboured, and many a brave
deed he performed for her sake. He loved her so dearly that no trouble
seemed to him too great to win her love, for she was the fairest lady
under the sun, and, moreover, came of high lineage. But, at last, seeing
his worthiness and meek obedience, she consented to take him for her
husband and her lord (such lordship as men have over their wives); and, in
order that they might live more happily together, Arviragus, of his own
free will, swore, as a knight, that he would never tyrannize over her, but
follow her wishes in all things, as he had done ever.[163]
This kindness touched the lady deeply, and she thanked Arviragus; and,
with great humility, she said, “Since of your gentillesse you proffer me
so much power, I will always be a humble and true wife to you. Have here
my troth, until my life shall end.”
Thus they lived happily and at peace; for those who would live long
together must give in to each other.
Love wol nought ben constreigned by maystrie: mastery
Whan maystrie cometh, the god of love anon soon
Beteth his winges, and fare wel--he is gon!
Love will not be constrained by tyranny;
When mastery cometh, the god of Love anon
Beateth his wings, and farewell!--he is gone!
For women wish for liberty, and not to be kept like slaves--and so do men
also, if I tell truth. And whoever is patient in love, has all the
advantage. Patience is a high virtue, for it overcomes things that rigour
cannot do.
Arviragus went home with his wife to his own country, not far from
Penmark,[164] where they dwelt ‘in bliss and in solace.’
When a year had passed away, this knight Arviragus made ready to go to
England[165] to seek fame and honour in the service of arms, and there he
dwelt two years.
But Dorigene loved her husband so dearly that she wept and fell sick when
she was left alone. She could not sleep or eat, and as time went on, all
her friends thought she would die. They tried to amuse her all that they
could. Night and day they strove to comfort her, she was so sad, and
begged her to go and roam with them in the fields and on the sea-shore.
You know even a stone will show some pattern at last if you cut long
enough at it: and after a while Dorigene began to try and cheer up a
little. Meanwhile, Arviragus sent letters home to tell her he would
speedily return, else grief had slain her heart!
Now, Dorigene’s castle stood near the sea; and sometimes she used to walk
with her friends and her people on the cliffs, from whence she could see
ever so many great ships and barges sailing by. But even the sea began to
make her sad, for she said to herself, “Of all these ships that I see, is
there not one will bring me back my lord?”
At other times she would sit and look down from the brink of the cliff;
but when she saw the grisly black rocks that wrecked so many ships, her
heart quaked with fear, and she sank on the green grass, and cried, with
deep sighs of grief, “Would to God that all these black rocks were sunk
into the earth, for my lord’s sake!” and the piteous tears fell from her
eyes.
Her friends soon saw it did her no good looking at the sea, but only made
her worse. So they led her by rivers, and in beautiful green places, where
they danced, and played at chess and tables.[166]
So on a day, right in the morwe tyde, morning
Unto a gardyne that was ther besyde,
In which that thay hadde made here ordinaunce
Of vitaile, and of other purvyaunce, victual
They gon and pleyen hem al the longe day. go, play
And this was on the sixte morwe of May,[167]
Which May had peynted with his softe schoures
This gardyn ful of leves and of floures.
So on a day, before the sun was high,
Unto a garden fair that was hard by
(Wherein they had spread forth their meat and drink,
And every comfort that the heart could think),
They went--and sported all the whole long day,
And this was on the sixth sweet morn of May,
When May had painted, with his tender showers,
This garden full of fragrant leaves and flowers.
The odour of flowers and the fresh scene would have made any heart light
that ever was born except one burdened by great sickness or great sorrow.
After dinner they began to dance and sing--all save Dorigene, whose heart
was sad. He whom she loved best was not among them.
There danced, among others, a squire before Dorigene, who was handsomer,
and more radiant in array, and fresher than a May morning. He sang and
danced better than anybody ever danced before, or will again! And,
besides, he was young, strong, and virtuous, and rich and wise, and held
in great esteem.
This squire, whose name was Aurelius, had long loved the Lady Dorigene,
but she knew nothing of it. He did not dare to tell her his grief, and
could only sing songs, in which he complained in a general way that he
loved some one who regarded him not.
He made a great many songs in this strain.
But at last, on this day it happened, as Aurelius was her neighbour, and a
man of worship and honour, Dorigene fell a-talking with him; and when he
saw a chance, Aurelius said to her, “Madam, I wish when Arviragus went
over the sea, I had gone whither I could never come back! For well I know
you do not care for me. Madam, forget Arviragus: and love me a little, or
I shall die!”
Dorigene looked at him, and said, “Is this your will? I never knew what
you meant. But now, this is my answer: I cannot forget my Arviragus, and I
do not care for any one but him!”
But afterwards she said in play, “Aurelius, I will love you when you have
taken away all the rocks and stones that hinder the ships from sailing.
And when you have made the coast so clear that there is not a single stone
to be seen, then I will love you best of any man.” For she well knew the
rocks could never be moved.
But Aurelius was sorely grieved. “Is there no other grace in you?” said
he. “No, by that Lord who made me,” Dorigene answered. “Madam, it is an
impossibility,” he said; “I must die.”
Then came Dorigene’s other friends, who knew nothing of this. They roamed
up and down the green alleys, and betook themselves to new sports and new
revels; but Aurelius did not mingle with them. He went sorrowfully to his
own home, for it seemed as though he felt his heart grow cold.
He was so sad that he fell sick, and so suffered a long, long time,
telling his trouble to nobody in the world; except to his brother, who was
a clerk,[168] and who was very sorry for him.
His breast was hole withouten for to sene, see
But in his herte ay was the arwe kene. ever
His breast was whole without, to every eye,
But in his heart the arrow keen did lie.
And well you know that it is a perilous cure when a wound is healed
outwardly only!
Meanwhile, Arviragus came home from England to his faithful wife, and
there were great rejoicings, and feasts, and jousting; and these two were
so glad to see each other that they thought of nothing else. Dorigene
cared nothing at all for Aurelius; and Arviragus had no suspicion that
Aurelius had spoken to her of love.
[Illustration: DORIGEN AND AURELIUS IN THE GARDEN.
‘Have mercy, swete, or ye wol do me deye.’]
Now Aurelius’ brother was a very learned man; and as he saw Aurelius got
no better, he was very unhappy about him. At last he remembered that he
had once seen at Orleans, in France, a book on conjuring,[169] which had
been left in his way. This book was full of all sorts of curious tricks
which were performed by the ‘tregetoures’ or jugglers of that day. He was
glad when he thought of this book, feeling sure he saw a chance of curing
Aurelius.
And whan this boke was in his remembraunce,
Anon for joye his herte gan for to daunce, immediately
And to him selve he sayde pryvely,
My brother shal be warisshed hastely, cured
For I am siker that ther ben sciences sure
By whiche men maken dyverse apparences, various
Swiche as thise subtile tregetoures pleyen,
For oft at festes have I wel herde seyen
That tregettoures withinne an halle large
Han made come in a water and a barge,
And in the halle rowen up and doun.
Sometyme hath semed come a grym leoun, seemed, grim
And sometyme floures spring as in a mede,[170]
Sometyme a vine, and grapes white and rede,
Sometyme a castel al of lym and ston,
And whan hem liked voyded it anon. dispersed
Thus semeth it to every mannes sight.
And when this book came, by a lucky chance,
Into his mind, his heart began to dance,
And to himself he whispered privily,
“My brother shall be healed full speedily,
For I am sure that there be sciences
By which men raise divers appearances,
Such as the cunning jugglers do in play;
For oftentimes at feasts have I heard say
That jugglers playing in a hall so large,
Have seemed to bring in waters and a barge,
And in the hall they row it to and fro.
Sometimes a lion fierce will come and go,
Sometimes, as in a meadow, flowers upspring,
Sometimes a vine, with rich fruit clustering,
Sometimes a castle all of lime and stone,
And when they wish, at once the whole is gone!
Thus seemeth it to be, in all men’s sight.”
Therefore he thought that if he could find any old friend at Orleans, who
knew anything of magic, he might help Aurelius to win the beautiful
Dorigene.
He went to his brother’s bed, and gave him so much hope that he sprang up
at once and started off to Orleans.
When they were nearly arrived at the city, they met a young clerk, roaming
by himself, who greeted them in Latin, saying, to their great wonder, “I
know the cause that brings you here,” and, ere they went a step farther,
he told them all that was in their minds!
This clerk was, you see, a magician, and having saved them the trouble of
explaining their business, he brought them to his house, where he feasted
them in splendid style, and showed them many wonderful visions.
He schewed hem, er they went to soupere, supper
Forestes, parkes, full of wilde dere;
There[171] saw he hartes with hir hornes hie,
The gretest that were ever seen with eie!
He saw of hem an hundred slain with houndes,
And som with arwes blede of bitter woundes.
He saw, when voided were the wilde dere, departed
Thise faukoneres upon a faire rivere,
That with hir haukes han the heron slein. hawks
Tho saw he knyhtes justen in a pleyn; joust
And after this he dide him such plesaunce,
That he him schewed his lady in a daunce,
On which himself he dauncéd, as him thouht.
And when this mayster that this magique wrouht,
Sawh it was tyme, he clapped his hondes tuo, two
And, fare wel! al the revel is y-do! done
And yet remued they never out of the hous
While they saw alle this sightes mervelous;
But in his studie, ther his bookes be,
They saten stille, and no wighte but they thre.
He made appear, before they went to meat,
Forests and parks, with wild deer fair and fleet;
There saw he harts that tossed their antlers high,
The greatest that were ever seen with eye!
He saw a hundred of them slain by hounds,
While some with arrows bled of bitter wounds,
And when the wild deer were no longer there,
Came falconers upon a river fair,
Who, with their falcons, have the heron slain;
Then saw he knights all jousting in a plain;
And after this he gave him such pleasance,
That he could see his lady in a dance,
In which himself was dancing, as he thought.
And when this master, who the magic wrought,
Saw it was time, he clapped his hands, and eh!
Farewell! for all the revel fades away!
And yet they never moved from out the house,
While they did see these visions marvellous;
But in his study, where his volumes lay,
They sat alone, and no man else but they.
Therefore, after all these wondrous sights, inside the magician’s study,
there was no doubt that he could make the rocks disappear on the coast of
Brittany!
Aurelius asked him how much money he should give him to perform that feat,
and the magician said he must have no less than a thousand pounds;[172]
but Aurelius said he would give him the whole world if he could; and it
was agreed that for this sum he should make the rocks vanish, and that
without delay!
The next morning, at daybreak, Aurelius, his brother, and the magician,
went to the sea-side of Brittany, where the feat was to be done: it was
the cold frosty month of December.
Aurelius paid the magician every attention in his power, and entreated him
to hasten to alleviate his misery; he rather ungraciously added, that he
would slit his heart with his sword if he didn’t.
The cunning sorcerer made as much haste as he could with his spells and
trickeries to make all the rocks sink, or seem to sink, before the eyes of
all that looked at them, right underground; at last he succeeded. By his
magic arts it really did seem to everybody, for a week or two, that the
rocks were all gone.
Aurelius thanked him with joy, and then hastened to the castle, where he
knew he should see Dorigene, to remind her of what she had promised.
“My sovereign lady,” he said, saluting her humbly--
Ye wot right wel what ye byhighte me, promised
And in myn hond your trouthe plighte ye my
To love me best; God woot ye sayde so,
Al be that I unworthy am therto.
Madame, I speke it for thonour of yow you
More than to save myn hertes lif right now:
I have do so as ye comaundede me,
And if ye vouchesauf ye maye go se. vouchsafe
In yow lith al to do me lyve or deye, lieth
But wel I wote the rokkes ben aweye. are
“You know right well what you have promised me,
And hand in mine your fair trouth plighted ye
To love me best; God knoweth you said so,
Although I be unworthy thereunto.
Madam, I speak for th’ honour of the vow
More than to urge my heart’s deep longing now:
For I have done as you commanded me,
And if you please it, you may go and see.
It rests with you, to let me live or die,
But that the rocks have vanish’d, well know I.”
Poor Dorigene had little expected to fall into such a trap! She stood
astonished, and her face grew white--all the colour left her cheeks. How
bitterly she repented her rash promise! for she did not want to go away
with Aurelius. “Alas!” she cried, “that such a thing should be! how could
I guess so monstrous a marvel could come to pass?” and her terror made her
like one desperate.
Her husband, Arviragus, too, was absent, and there was no one she could
tell her trouble to. She cried and lamented for three days, vainly
thinking how she could get out of the scrape; and at last she determined
to die. So three days passed, and all the time she was weeping and
resolving on her death.
However, on the third night, Arviragus came home again; and, when he knew
what she was weeping so bitterly for, he said, cheerfully and kindly, “Is
that all, Dorigene?”
Is ther aught elles, Dorigen, but this? else
Nay, nay, quod sche, God me so rede and wis reads, knows
This is to moche, and it were Goddes wille! if
Ye, wyf, quod he, let slepe that may be stille,[173]
It may be wel, paraunter, yet to-day. peradventure
Ye schal your trouthe holden, by my fay, faith
For God so wisly have mercy on me, wisely
I hadde wel lever i-stekid for to be, rather, slain
For verray love which that I to you have,
But if ye scholde your trouthe kepe and save, unless
Trouthe is the hiest thing that man may kepe.
And with that word he brast anon to wepe. burst
“Is there aught further, Dorigene, than this?”
“Nay, nay,” cried she, “God help me, for it is
Too much already--were it but His will!”
“Yea, wife,” he answered, “what has been is still,
But yet, perchance, it may be well to-day.
That promise you shall hold to, by my fay,
For as I hope for mercy from on high,
I would more willingly consent to die,
Yea for the love’s sake that I bear to you,
Than you should break the honour of a vow
Faith is the highest thing that can be kept.”
And with that word he broke away and wept.
Poor Arviragus, this brave and just knight, bade Dorigene keep her word at
any cost to herself or him, but he could not keep up his cheerful tone. He
was too deeply grieved and hurt, and even wept with her for sorrow.
Then he commanded a squire and a maid to attend Dorigene for a part of the
way to the garden, where Aurelius would fetch her.
Now, Aurelius happened to meet her on her way to the garden, in one of the
busiest streets of the town. He saluted her joyfully, and asked her
whither she was going. But Dorigene was distracted with grief.
And sche answered, half as sche were mad,
Unto the gardyn, as myn housbond bad,
My trouthe for to holde, allas! allas!
And she made answer half as she were mad,
“Unto the garden, as my husband bade,
To keep my troth to you, alas! alas!”
When Aurelius heard that, he was deeply touched that Arviragus should have
sent her, weeping as she was, rather than she should break her promise.
See how proud and how strong the sense of honour was in those days! He
felt that after such a sacrifice he would rather forego everything than
insist upon his right to take away Dorigene, which, he felt, would be
‘_churlish wretchedness against fraunchise of all gentillesse_’[174]--a
deed against courtesy and honour. And he said, “Madam, say to your lord,
Arviragus, that since I see he would rather suffer anything than that you
should fail in truth, and since I see that you care far more for Arviragus
than ever you will for me--even if you went away with me, you would never
love me as much as Arviragus--I would rather be unhappy all my life than
make you so. I release you from your promise for ever.”
Thus can a squyer doon a gentil dede, do
As wel as can a knyghte, withouten drede.
Thus can a squire do a noble deed
As nobly as a knight can, without dread.
Dorigene fell down on her knees and thanked him, and went back to her
husband happy, and they lived in bliss ever after.
Aurelius, however, though his conscience was clear, bethought him of all
his trouble and the money he had spent to no purpose. He had willingly
promised all his fortune when he thought he could win beautiful Dorigene;
but now he said, “I must sell my heritage, but I cannot live here a beggar
to shame my kindred; unless the magician would be so kind as to let me pay
the thousand pounds little by little. I will not break my promise to him.
He shall have the money though I have got nothing by it.”
With herte soor he goth unto his cofre, sore
And broughte gold unto this philosophre, philosopher
The value of fyf hundred pound, I gesse,
And him bysecheth of his gentillesce, beseecheth
To graunte him dayes of the remenaunt; remnant
And sayde, Maister, I dar wel make avaunt boast
I fayled never of my trouthe as yit,
For sikerly my dettes schall be quyt surely
Towardes yow, how so that ever I fare
To goon and begge in my kurtil bare, beg, tunic
But wolde ye vouchesauf upon seurté, vouchsafe, surety
Tuo yere or thre for to respite me,
Than were I wel, for elles most I selle
Myn heritage, ther is nomore to telle.
With mournful heart he went unto his coffer
And took such gold as he was free to offer,
The value of five hundred pounds, I guess;
Beseeching him, of his kindheartedness,
To grant him for the rest some time to pay,
And said, “Master, I do not fear to say
I never failed to keep my word as yet;
Truly my debt to you I shall acquit,
Whatever comes--though I must needs at best
Go begging in my shirt to find the rest.
But would ye grant, on good security,
To give me credit for two years, or three,
Then all were well, for else I must needs sell
My heritage--there is no more to tell.”
The magician soberly answered, “Did I not keep my covenant with you?”
“Yes, well and truly,” said Aurelius.
“And did you not take the lady away with you?”
“No, no,” said Aurelius, sadly; and he told him all that had happened.
The magician answered, “Dear friend, every one of you has behaved
honourably. Thou art a squire, and he is a knight, but a simple clerk can
do a gentle deed, as well as any of you! Sir, I release you from your
thousand pounds: I will not take a penny from you.” And he took his horse
and rode away.
Chaucer winds up by saying--
Lordynges, this questioun wold I axe now-- ask
Which was the moste free, as thinketh yow? liberal
Masters, a little question answer me--
Which one was the most generous of the three?
And you, tell me which you think was the most honourable in keeping faith,
and most generous in giving up his rights.
But beware of the folly that Dorigene committed, in making rash promises;
for when you make a promise you must be prepared to keep it, and cannot
always expect to be let off as she was.
Notes by the Way.
One of the most interesting illustrations of the singular morality which
was the outcome of woman’s transition state from a position of slavery to
one of equality with man, is to be found in this curious but beautiful
tale: a tale which in any other age could scarcely have been popular. The
Franklin tells us it was an old Breton lay; which, however, is now not
known to exist.
It is seen that woman, from being regarded as a mere chattel, like horse
or dog, came to be unnaturally exalted; and, as new movements often
outshoot their mark and go too far, she came to be held as something
god-like and ideal, the moving spring of all heroic virtues. Valour,
courtesy, self-control, obedience, were taught by her, and she could give
no higher guerdon than herself. (See note to ‘Knight’s Tale,’ p. 45.)
It is the young and inexperienced hound which outruns the scent, not the
fully trained dog, and we must remember that society had then the virtues
and vices of immaturity. The Franklin’s Tale, with its pathos and
earnestness, passing at times into burlesque, is as quaint and instructive
as an early effigy on some cathedral door.
A certain soft and refined luxuriousness seems to hang like a gossamer
veil over a sentiment of genuine and vigorous chivalry, carried too far
for our 19th century notions, but, like the generous mistakes of youth,
none the less touching.
The moral of this striking tale points out the danger of giving even the
smallest inlet to wrong dealing; since a condition apparently impossible
to realize may after all work our ruin.
The Pardoner’s Tale.
Then mine host turned to the Pardoner: “Thou, pardoner, thou, my good
friend,” he said--
Tel us a tale, for thou canst many oon.
It schal be doon, quod he, and that anoon.
But first, quod he, her at this ale-stake[175]
I wil bothe drynke and byten on a cake.
“Tell us a tale; thou knowest many an one.”
“I will!” he said; “it shall at once be done.
But first,” he added, “here at this ale-stake
I’ll take a drink, and have a bite of cake.”
When he had done so (for they were passing a roadside inn), he began, as
you shall hear:--
There was in Flanders a company of young folk, who gave themselves up to
folly and wrong-doing. They did nothing but gamble and riot, and drink
wine, and dance, and swear; and their gluttony and idleness made them
wicked, so that when they heard of other people committing sin they
laughed and did as much wrong as ever they could.
This kind of life degrades every one. Gluttony was the first cause of our
confusion: Adam and Eve were driven from Paradise for that vice. And
drunkenness leads to many other sins, as is shown in Holy Writ.
Three of these bad young men were sitting in a tavern one morning very
early, drinking, when they heard the clinking of a bell[176] before a
corpse that was being carried to the grave. One of them called to his boy,
“Go out, and ask who that dead man is who passes by; and mind you bring
his name back right!”
“Master,” said the boy, “there is no need to go and ask, for I heard who
the dead man was two hours before you came into this tavern. He was one of
your own companions, and he was slain last night as he sat in his chair
drinking, by a privy thief named Death, who kills everybody in this
country. With his spear he smote his heart in two, and went away without
speaking. About a thousand has he killed this pestilence.[177] And,
master, it seems to me, that before he comes to you too, it were as well
to be prepared. Beware of him, be ready for him! my dame ever taught me
that.”
By seinte Mary, sayde this taverner, innkeeper
The child saith soth, for he hath slayn this yeer, true
Hens over a myle, withinne a gret village,
Bothe man and womman, child, and hyne, and page. labourer
“By holy Mary,” said the innkeeper,
“The child says true, for he hath slain this year,
Within a mile hence, in a large village,
Both man and woman, servant, child, and page.
“I should think he lived there, this Death, so many have died. It were
wise to be warned before he came suddenly on a man!”
“Good lack,” cried one of the rioters with an oath, “is it then such
danger to meet him? I’ll seek him out by street and stile.
Herkneth, felaws, we thre ben all oones, hearken, be
Let ech of us hold up his hond[178] to other, hand
And ech of us bycome otheres brother;
And we wil slee this false traitour Deth;
He shall be slayne, that so many sleeth. slain, slayeth
“Now listen, mates, for all we three are one,
Let each hold up his hand unto the other,
And each of us become the others’ brother.
And we will slay this sneaking traitor Death,
He shall be slain, he that so many slay’th.”
So these three men, half drunk as they were, plighted faith to live and
die for each other, as though they were brothers born. And up they
started, and went forth to this village, of which the innkeeper had
spoken, where they thought Death lived. And much bad language they used,
and many wicked things they said, resolving to catch Death before night
fell.
Right as thay wolde han torned over a style, turned
Whan thai han goon nought fully half a myle,
An old man and a pore with hem mette.
This olde man ful mekely hem grette,[179] meekly, greeted
And saide thus, Lordynges, God yow se! God see you
The proudest of these ryotoures thre rioters
Answerd ayein, What, carle, with sory grace, churl
Why artow al for-wrapped save thi face?[180]-- wrapped up
Why lyvest thou longe in so great an age?
This olde man gan loke on his visage, began, look
And saide thus: For that I can not fynde because
A man--though that I walke into Inde--
Neither in cité noon, ne in village,
That wol chaunge his youthe for myn age;
And therfore moot I have myn age stille
As longe tyme as it is Goddes wille,
Ne Deth, allas! ne wil not have my lif,
Thus walk I lik a resteles caytif,[181]
And on the ground, which is my modres gate,
I knokke with my staf, erly and late,
And saye, Leeve moder, let me in. dear
Lo, how I wane, fleisch, and blood, and skyn--
Allas, whan schuln my boones ben at rest? shall, bones
Moder, with yow wil I chaunge my chest,
That in my chamber longe tyme hath be,
Ye, for an haire clout[182] to wrap-in me. enwrap
But, yet to me sche wol not do that grace, favour
For which ful pale and welkid is my face. withered
But sires, to yow it is no curtesye
To speke unto an old man vilonye,
But he trespas in word or elles in dede. unless, else
In holy writ ye may yourself wel rede, read
Ayens an old man, hoor upon his hede, in presence of
Ye schold arise: wherefor I you rede exhort
Ne doth unto an old man more harm now, do not
Namore than ye wolde men dede to yow
In age, if that ye may so long abyde. live so long
And God be with you, wherso ye go or ryde! walk
I moot go thider as I have to goo. thither
Nay, olde cherl, by God thou shalt not so,
Sayde that other hasardour anoon,
Thou partist nought so lightly, by seint Johan! departest, easily
Thou spak right now of thilke traitour Deth,
That in this contré alle our frendes sleth;
Have her my trouth, as thou art his aspye; here
Tel wher he is, or elles thou schalt dye.[183]
Just as they were about to cross a stile,
When they had gone not fully half a mile,
A poor and aged man did meet them there.
This old man greeted them with civil air,
And said, “Good day, my lords, God look on ye.”
Then the most arrogant of the noisy three
Answered him thus--“What, churl, with sorry grace,
Why art thou all wrapped up except thy face?
Why livest thou so long, and art so grey?”
The old man looked him in the face straightway,
And answer’d thus: “Because I cannot find
A man--e’en though I walk’d as far as Inde--
Neither in any city, nor villàge,
Willing to change his youth for mine old age;
And therefore must I have my old age still
As long a time as it is heaven’s will.
Nor will e’en Death receive my life, alas!
Thus like a restless wayfarer I pass,
And on the ground, which is my mother’s gate,
Keep knocking with my staff early and late,
And say to her--‘Dear mother, let me in.
Lo, how I vanish, flesh and blood and skin--
Alas, when shall my bones remain at rest?
Mother, I want to change with you my chest,
Which in my room so long a time hath been,
Yea, for a cloth of hair to wrap me in!’
But yet to me she will not do that grace,
Wherefore so pale and wrinkled is my face.
“But, sirs, in you it is no courtesy
To speak to an old man disdainfully,
Unless he shall offend in word or deed.
In Holy Writ ye may your own selves read,
Before an aged man whose hair is grey
Ye should rise up--and therefore I you pray
Offer to an old man no mischief now
More than you would that men did unto you
In your old age, if you so long abide,
And God be with you, whither you walk or ride!
I must go on, whither I have to go.”
“Nay, thou old churl, thou shalt not quit us so.”
Cried out the other rioter anon,
“Thou partest not so lightly, by St. John!
Thou hast just spoken of that traitor Death
Who all our friends through all the country slay’th,
So now I warrant thee, thou art his spy;
Tell where he is, this Death, or thou shall die.
“You needn’t deny that you know of his whereabouts--for you are in his
plot to get rid of us young folks, you wretched old thief!”
Now, sires, than if that yow be so leef
To fynde Deth, torn up this croked way,
For in that grove I laft him,[184] by my fay,
Under a tree, and ther he wil abyde. remain
Ne for your bost he nyl him no thing hyde. boast
Se ye that ook? right ther ye schuln him fynde.
God save yow, that bought agein mankynde, again
And yow amend. Thus sayth this olde man,
And everich of these riotoures ran, every one
Til thay come to the tre, and ther thay founde
Of florins fyn of gold ycoyned rounde, coined
Wel neygh a seven busshels, as hem thoughte.
No lenger thanne after Deth thay soughte,
But ech of hem so glad was of that sighte,
For that the florens so faire were and brighte,
That doun thai sette hem by the precious hord.
The werste[185] of hem he spake the firste word.
Bretheren, quod he, take kepe what I schal saye,
My witte is gret, though that I bourde and playe, wisdom, jest
This tresour hath fortune to us yiven, given
In mirth and jolyté our lif to lyven, jollity, live
And lightly as it comth, so wil we spende. cometh
Ey, Goddis precious dignite, who wende supposed
Today, that we schuld have so fair a grace?
But mighte this gold be caried fro this place
Hom to myn hous, or ellis unto youres,
(For wel I wot that this gold is nought oures), know
Than were we in heyh felicité. high
But trewely by day it may not be,
Men wolde saye that we were theves stronge,
And for our tresour doon us for to honge. have us hanged
This tresour moste caried be by nighte
As wysly and as slely as it mighte.
Wherfore I rede, that cut among us alle advise
We drawe, and let se wher the cut wil falle,
And he that hath the cut, with herte blithe, blithe heart
Shal renne to the toun, and that ful swithe, run, quickly
And bring us bred and wyn ful prively,
And tuo of us shal kepe subtilly
This tresour wel: and if he wol not tarie, delay
Whan it is night, we wol this tresour carie,[186]
By oon assent, ther as us liketh best. wither
That oon of hem the cut brought in his fest, fist
And bad hem drawe and loke wher it wil falle, look
And it fel on the yongest of hem alle,
And forth toward the toun he went anoon. at once
And al so soone as that he was agoon,
That oon of hem spak thus unto that other:
Thou wost wel that thou art my sworne brother,
Thy profyt wol I telle the anoon. directly
Thou wost wel that our felaw is agoon, knowest
And her is gold, and that ful gret plente, plenty
That schal departed be among us thre.
But natheles if I can schape it so
That it departed were betwix us tuo,
Hadde I not doon a frendes torn to the?
That other answerd, I not how that may be; know not
He wot wel that the gold is with us twaye, two
What schulde we than do? what schulde we saye? say
Schal it be counsail?[187] sayd the ferste schrewe, wicked person
And I schal telle thee in wordes fewe
What we schul doon, and bringe it wel aboute. do
I graunte, quod that other, without doute,
That by my trouthe I wil thee nought bywraye. betray
Now, quoth the first, thou wost wel we ben twaye, knowest
And two of us schal strenger be than oon.
Loke, whanne he is sett, thou right anoon[188] look
Arys, as though thou woldest with him pleye,[189] wouldest
And I schal ryf him through the sydes tweye, rip
Whils that thou strogelest with him as in game,
And with thi dagger, loke thou do the same.
And than schal al the gold departed be, divided
My dere frend, bitwixe the and me: thee
Than may we oure lustes al fulfille, might
And pley at dees right at our owne wille. dice
“Now, sirs,” quoth he, “if you so eager be
To seek for Death, turn up this crooked way,
For in that grove I left him, by my fay,
Under a tree, and there he will abide,
Nor for your noise and boasting will he hide.
See ye that oak? close there his place you’ll find,
God save you, sirs, that hath redeem’d mankind,
And mend you all”--thus said the aged man.
And thereupon each of the rioters ran
Until they reach’d the tree, and there they found
A heap of golden florins, bright and round,
Well-nigh seven bushels of them, as they thought.
And then no longer after Death they sought,
But each of them so glad was at the sight,
The florins were so beauteous and so bright,
That down they sat beside the precious hoard.
The worst one was the first to speak a word.
“Brothers,” said he, “take heed of what I say,
For I am wise, although I jest and play,
This treasure makes our fortune, so that we
May lead our lives in mirth and jollity,
And lightly as it comes, we’ll lightly spend.
By heaven! who would have thought that luck would send
Us three good friends to-day so fair a grace?
But could this gold be carried from this place
Home to my house, or else to one of yours
(For all this gold I well know is not ours)
Then were we in complete felicity.
But, truly, during day it cannot be,
People would call us thieves, and possibly
Hang us for our own treasure on a tree.
This treasure should be carried off by night,
As cleverly and slily as it might.
I counsel then, that we among us all
Draw lots, and see to whom the lot will fall,
And he that hath the lot shall cheerfully
Go back into the town, and speedily,
And bring us bread and wine full privily;
Meanwhile we two keep safe and secretly
This treasure here: and if he do not tarry,
When the night comes we will the treasure carry,
By one assent, where we think best, or list.”
This man then held the lots within his fist,
And bade them draw and see where it would fall;
It fell upon the youngest of them all,
Who therefore toward the town went forth anon.
As soon as their companion was gone
The first one subtly spoke unto the other:
“Thou knowest well that thou art my sworn brother,
I’ll tell thee what thy profit is to-day.
Thou seest that our fellow is away,
And here is gold, all heap’d up plenteously,
Which is to be divided ’mong us three.
But, nevertheless, if I can shape it so
That it might be divided ’mong us _two_,
Have I not done a friend’s turn unto thee?”
“I know not,” said the other, “how that may be;
He knows quite well the gold is with us two,
What should we say to him? what should we do?”
“Shall it be counsel?” said the first again--
“And in a few words I shall tell thee plain,
What we shall do to bring the thing about.”
“I promise,” said the other, “without doubt
That I, for one, will not be treacherous.”
“Now,” said the first one, “there are two of us,
And two of us will stronger be than one.
Look, thou, when he is sitting down, and soon
Rise up, as if to play with him, and I
Will stab him through the two sides suddenly,
While thou art struggling with him as in game,
And with thy dagger, look, thou do the same.
And then shall all this gold divided be,
My dearest friend, betwixt thyself and me:
Then all our wants and whims we can fulfil,
And play at dice according to our will.”
[Illustration: THE RIOTER.
‘For this witterly was his ful entente--
To slen hem bothe and never to repente.’]
Thus these two ruffians made their compact to murder the third, as I have
described.
This yongest, which that wente to the toun, who
Full fast in hert he rollith up and doun close
The beaute of these florins, newe and brighte.
O Lord, quoth he, if so were that I mighte
Have all this gold unto myself alloone,
Ther is no man that lyveth under the troone throne
Of God, that schulde lyve so mery as I.
And atte last the feend, oure enemy,
Put in his thought that he schulde poysoun beye, buy
With which he mighte sle his felawes tweye. slay
For why? the feend fond him in such lyvynge
That he hadde leve to sorwe him to brynge: sorrow
For this was outrely[190] his ful entente
To slen hem bothe, and never to repente. slay
And forth he goth, no lenger wold he tarye, delay
Into the toun unto a potecarye, apothecary
And prayde him that he him wolde selle
Som poysoun, that he might his rattis quelle; rats
And eek ther was a polkat in his hawe farmyard
That, as he sayde, his capouns had i-slawe,
And said he wold him wreke, if that he mighte, avenge
Of vermyn, that destroyed hem by nighte.
Thapotecary answerd,[191]Thou schalt have the apothecary
A thing that, also God my soule save,
In al this world ther nys no creature
That ete or dronk hath of this confecture-- mixture
Nought but the mountaunce of a corn of whete-- amount
That he ne schuld his lif anoon for-lete; quit
Ye, sterve he schal, and that in lasse while die
Than thou wilt goon a paas not but a myle, step
This poysoun is so strong and violent.
This cursed man hath in his hond i-hent caught or taken
This poysoun in a box, and sins he ran then
Into the nexte stret unto a man
And borwed of him large boteles thre,
And in the two his poysoun poured he:
The thrid he kepede clene for his drynke, third, clean
For al the night he schop him for to swynke prepared, labour
In carying of the gold out of that place.
And whan this riotour, with sorry grace, rioter
Hath fillid with wyn his grete botels thre,
To his felaws ayein repaireth he. again
What nedith it therof to sermoun more? sermonize
For right as they hadde cast[192] his deth bifore, arranged
Right so thay han him slayn, and that anoon. have
And whan this was i-doon, thus spak that oon: spake, one
Now let us drynke and sitte, and make us mery,
And afterwards[193] we wil his body bery. will
And with that word[193] it happed him _par cas_ by chance
To take the botel ther the poysoun was, wherein
And drank, and yaf his felaw drink also, gave
For which anon thay stervede bothe two. soon, died
But certes I suppose that Avycen[194] certainly
Wrot never in _canoun_, ne in non _fen_, wrote
Mo wonder sorwes of empoisonyng wondrous pangs
Than hadde these wrecches tuo or here endyng.
Thus endid been these homicides tuo, be
And eek the fals empoysoner also. also
The youngest, who had gone into the town,
Deep in his mind he turneth up and down
The beauty of these florins, new and bright.
“O Lord,” quoth he, “if any-wise I might
Have all this treasure to myself alone,
There is no man that dwelleth under the throne
Of God, who then should live so merry as I.”
And at the last the fiend, our enemy,
Put in his thought that he should poison buy,
With which to cause his comrades both to die.
For why? the fiend found this man’s life so foul
That he had power now upon his soul:
For this was utterly his fix’d intent
To slay them both and never to repent
And forth he goes, no longer would he tarry,
Into the town to an apothecary,
And begged him plausibly that he would sell
Him poison strong enough the rats to quell;
Also, there was a polecat in his yard
Which had destroy’d his capons, he averr’d,
And he would gladly rid him if he might
Of vermin, which destroy’d them in the night.
The apothecary answered, “Thou shalt have
Something so strong, as God my soul shall save,
That in this world nothing that living is
Who in his food doth eat or drink of this--
Nay, but the greatness of a grain of wheat--
Shall fail to die, his life shall be forfeit;
Yea, he shall die, and that in lesser while
Than thou shalt walk a step beyond a mile,
This poison is so strong and violent.”
This curséd man hath taken it and pent
The poison in a box, and forthwith ran
Hastily to the next street, to a man
And borrow’d of him some large bottles three,
And into two the poison pouréd he:
The third he kept untainted for himself,
Meaning to toil at carrying his pelf
From out that cursed place the whole night long.
And when this villain, bent on doing wrong,
Had filled his three great bottles up with wine,
Back to his mates he went, as if to dine.
What need is there of saying any more?
For as they had devised his death before,
E’en so they slew him, and with brief delay.
And when the deed was done, the first did say,
“Now let us sit and drink, and make us merry,
And afterwards we will his body bury.”
And speaking thus, he chanced, upon the minute,
To take a bottle which had poison in it,
And drank, and gave his fellow drink beside,
Whereby within a little space they died.
But truly I suppose that Avicen
Did ne’er describe in _canon_ or in _fen_
More frightful pains of deadly poisoning,
Than these two wretches felt in perishing.
Thus ended both the wicked homicides,
And that false-hearted poisoner besides.
Notes by the Way.
During the 12th, 13th, and 14th centuries the passion for gambling had
spread from the highest to the very lowest class of the population. The
practice of men drinking and playing themselves bare in the taverns, where
both vices were encouraged by the taverners, was common enough to provoke
numberless censures and caricatures, so much so that it is a mercy Sir
Wilfrid Lawson was spared the spectacle. The Pardoner’s Tale is one of the
list.
The taverns were the resort of all the refuse of the people: the taverners
found it suited them to act as pawnbrokers, advancing money on the clothes
and property of the ne’er-do-wells who lacked cash to stake or to pay; and
provided other attractions whereby men were tempted to various vices, and
robbed during their drunken sleep. The language of these young rascals of
both sexes is graphically condemned by the Pardoner; and gluttony is
pointed out as the root of all evil, for which Adam fell.
Hazard was the game with which our rioters strove to ‘drive away the day.’
Mr. Wright, speaking of the use of dice, tells us, “In its simpler form,
that of the game of hazard, in which the chance of each player rested on
the mere throw of the dice, it was the common game of the low frequenters
of the taverns--that class which lived upon the vices of society, and
which was hardly looked upon as belonging to society itself.” Men staked
all they possessed, to the very clothes on their backs, on one cast.
Chaucer tells us contemptuously how the King of Parthia sent a pair of
golden dice to King Demetrius in scorn, knowing he was a player, to
express that he held his glory and renown at no value, being liable to
disappear at any moment.
The three rioters were probably young men who had ruined themselves by
folly and licence, and whose besetting sin, surviving all it throve on,
urged them to any and every crime for the sake of renewed gratification.
Their end is beyond measure frightful. _For why?--The fiend found him in
such living that he had leave to bring him to grief_, says the severe old
moralist.
The extreme beauty of this poem, even in a technical sense alone, is such
that I lament the necessity of abridging it.
MINOR POEMS.
Complaint of Chaucer to his Purse.
To yow, my purse, and to noon other wight, no one else
Complayn I, for ye be my lady dere;
I am so sorry now that ye been lyght,[195]
For certes, but-yf ye make me heavy cheer if
Me were as leef be layde upon my bere, I were
For whiche unto your mercy thus I crye--
Beeth hevy ageyne, or elles mote I dye! be thou
Now voucheth sauf this day, or hyt be nyghte, vouchsafe before
That I of yow the blissful soune may here, sound
Or se your colour lyke the sunne bryghte,
That of yelownesse hadde never pere! rival
Ye be my lyfe! ye be myn hertys stere! rudder
Quene of comfort and goode companye,
Beth hevy ayeyne, or elles moote I die!
Now, purse, that ben to me my lyves lyghte, life’s
And saveour as doun in this worlde here, saviour
Oute of this toune helpe me thurgh your myght,
Syn that ye wole nat bene my tresorere,[196] since, treasurer
For I am shave[197] as nye as is a frere. nigh
But I pray unto youre courtesye,
Bethe hevy ayeyn, or elles moote I dye!
To you, my purse, and to no other wight,
Complain I, for you are my lady dear;
I am so sorry now that you are light,
For truly if you make me heavy cheer
I would as lief be laid upon my bier.
Therefore unto your mercy thus I cry--
Be heavy again, or else I needs must die!
I prithee grant this day, ere it be night,
That I once more your merry voice may hear,
Or see your colour like the sunshine bright,
Whereof the yellowness had never peer!
You are my life, and you my heart shall steer;
Queen of all comfort and good company,
Be heavy again, or else I needs must die!
Now, purse, who are to me my life, my light,
And chief deliverer in this world here,
Out of this city help me, by your might,
If you no more will be my treasure dear,
For I am shaved as close as any frere.
But I beseech you of your courtesy,
Be heavy again, or else I needs must die!
Two Rondeaux.
Youre two eyn will sle me sodenly, slay
I may the beauté of them not sustene, sustain
So wendeth it thorow-out my herte kene. goeth
And but your wordes will helen hastely
My hertis wound, while that it is grene,
Youre two eyn will sle me sodenly, &c.
Upon my trouth I say yow feithfully tell
That ye ben of my liffe and deth the quene, are
For with my deth the trouth shal be i-sene
Youre two eyn, &c.
Your fair two eyes will slay me suddenly,
I know not how to bear their beauty’s sheen,
It pierceth all my heart athrough so keen.
And if your words heal not full speedily
My heart’s deep wound, while still the wound is green,
Your fair two eyes will slay me suddenly,
I know not how to bear their beauty’s sheen,
It pierceth all my heart athrough so keen.
Upon my faith I tell you faithfully
Both of my life and death you are the queen,
For in my dying shall the truth be seen.
Your fair two eyes will slay me suddenly,
I know not how to bear their beauty’s sheen
It pierceth all my heart athrough so keen.
Syn I, fro Love escaped, am so fat,
I nere thinke to ben in his prison lene:[198] taken
Syn I am fre, I counte him not a bene. since, free
He may answere and seye this and that:
I do no fors, I speak ryght as I mene: I care not
Syn I fro Love escaped am so fat.
Love hath my name i-strike out of his sclat, struck, slate
And he is strike out of my bokes clene books
For evermo, there is none other mene. means
Syn I fro Love, &c.
Since I escaped from love, I am so fat,
No more I shall his captive be so lean:
Since I am free, I count him not a bean!
He may reply, and answer this and that:
I care not, for I speak but as I mean:
Since I from love escaped, I am so fat!
My name--out of his slate Love striketh that.
And he is struck out of my books as clean
For evermore, there is no way between!
Since I escaped, etc.
Virelai.
Alone walkyng,
In thought pleynyng mourning
And sore syghyng,
Al desolate,
Me remembryng remembering
Of my lyvyng, my way of living
My deth wyshyng wishing
Bothe erly and late.
Infortunate unfortunate
Is soo my fate so
That, wote ye whate?
Oute of mesure beyond measure
My lyfe I hate,
Thus, desperate,
In suche pore estate poor
Do I endure. remain
Of other cure
Am I nat sure; not
Thus to endure
Ys hard, certayn!
Suche ys my ure, use
I yow ensure: assure
What creature
May have more payn?
My trouth so pleyn truth
Ys take in veyn, taken
And gret disdeyn
In remembraunce; remembrance
Yet I ful feyn gladly
Wolde me compleyn,
Me to absteyn to avoid
From thys penaunce. penance