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1. The Squire-Franklin Link
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Here follow the words of the Franklin to the Squire and the words of the Host to the Franklin
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‘In faith, Squire, well you did yourself acquit
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And right nobly too; I applaud your wit,’
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Quoth the Franklin, ‘considering your youth,
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Feelingly you spoke, sire, all praise to you!
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In my opinion, not a one that’s here
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Can match your eloquence, or be your peer,
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While you’re alive; God give you now good chance,
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And of your powers send you continuance,
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In your speech I took great pleasure, truly.
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I have a son, and by the Trinity,
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Rather than have twenty pounds in land,
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Though right now it came into my hand,
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I’d have him be a man of such discretion
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As you are. Fie, then, on mere possession,
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If a man be but virtuous withal!
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I my son have chided, and shall do more,
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For he to virtue’s word will ne’er attend,
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All he can do is play at dice, and spend,
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Lose all that he has, through such ill usage.
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And he’d rather talk with some lowly page
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Than commune with a true gentle knight,
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From whom he might learn gentleness aright.’
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‘That, for your gentleness!’ quoth our Host.
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‘What, Franklin! Pardee, sire, well you know
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That every one of you must tell the rest
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A tale or two, or deny my sworn request.’
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‘That know I well, sire,’ quoth the Franklin,
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‘I pray you, hold me not in your disdain,
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Though to the Squire I spoke a word or two.’
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‘Tell on your tale, let’s have no more ado!’
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‘Gladly, sir Host,’ quoth he, ‘I will obey
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Your every wish; now hark to what I say.
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I will be contrary to you in no wise,
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As far as my humble wit may suffice.
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I pray to God that it may please you, too;
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Then will I know that it is good, and true.
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2. The Franklin’s Prologue
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The Prologue to the Franklin’s Tale
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The noble Breton lords, in olden days,
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From various adventures, fashioned lays,
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Rhymed them in the earliest Breton tongue,
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Which lays to their instruments were sung,
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Or else were read to them for their pleasure;
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And one I do recall, in some measure,
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Which I’ll relate as well as ever I can.
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But sirs, since I’m an unlearned man,
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At the beginning first I do beseech
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That you excuse my unpolished speech.
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I never learned rhetoric, that’s for certain;
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And whatever I speak is bare and plain.
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I never slept awhile on Mount Parnassus,
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Nor studied Cicero, that’s Marcus Tullius.
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Adornments I have none, ah, true indeed,
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Only such colours as adorn the mead,
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Or else such as are used to dye and paint.
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Rhetoric’s hues to me are dull and quaint
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My spirit knows little of them, I fear.
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But if you listen, you my tale shall hear.
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3. The Franklin’s Tale
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Here begins the Franklin’s Tale
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In Armorica, now called Brittany,
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There was a knight that loved, and truly he
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Strove to serve his lady in best wise.
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And many a labour, many an enterprise
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He for his lady wrought ere she was won;
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For she was among the fairest under the sun,
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And also she came of such a high kindred
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That the knight scarcely dared, for dread
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To tell her of his woe, pain, and distress.
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But at the last, seeing his worthiness,
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And especially his humble obeisance,
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She took such pity on his true penance
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That privately they entered in accord,
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She to make him her husband and her lord,
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With such lordship as men have over wives.
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And to live in greater bliss all their lives,
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Of his free will he swore to her as knight
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That never in all his life, day or night,
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Would he take upon himself the mastery
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Against her will, nor show her jealousy,
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But obey her, and follow her will in all,
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As any lover in his lady’s thrall;
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Save that the name alone of sovereignty
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Should he have, lest it shame his dignity.
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She thanked him, and with full great humbleness
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She said: ‘Sire, since, of your gentleness,
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You’ll allow me to have so great a rein,
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May God grant that never between us twain,
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Through guilt of mine, be any war or strife.
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Sire, I will be your humble loyal wife;
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Or may my heart break first, such is my pledge.
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Thus were they both in quiet and at rest.
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For one thing, goods sirs, I may safely say,
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That lovers must one another fast obey,
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If they’d keep company for many a day.
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Love will not be constrained by mastery;
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When mastery comes, the God of Love anon
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Beats his wings, and farewell, he is gone!
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Love is a thing as any spirit free.
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Women, by nature, wish for liberty,
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And not to be constrained, as in thrall,
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And so do men, and truth is this for all.
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Look who is most patient in their love,
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Has the advantage and so towers above.
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Patience is a high virtue, that’s certain,
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For it achieves, as clerics do maintain,
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Things that force is unable to attain.
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At every word we must not chide, complain;
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Learn to accept, or else, for here below,
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You shall learn, whether you will or no.
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And in this world, indeed, no one exists
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Who does not sometimes speak a word amiss.
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Ire, sickness, or the stars’ configuration,
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Wine, woe, or our humours’ alteration
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Often gives cause to do amiss or speak.
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Revenge for every wrong may no man wreak;
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According to the time, act with temperance
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All you that understand good governance.
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And therefore had this wise and noble knight,
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Sworn patience, so as to live at ease, aright,
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And she to him as earnestly did swear
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That he should never find a fault in her.
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Here may men see a humble, wise accord!
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Thus she makes him her servant and her lord –
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Servant in love, and yet her lord in marriage;
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Thus was he both in lordship and in bondage.
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Bondage? – Nay, in lordship high above,
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Since he had both his lady and his love;
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His lady, certain, and his wife also,
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Which the law of love accords with, though.
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And now he had met with such prosperity,
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Home with his wife he went to his country,
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Not far from Penmarch Point, his dwelling was,
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Where he lived in bliss and in solace.
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Who can know, unless he wedded be,
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The joy, the ease, and the prosperity
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That is between a husband and a wife?
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A year and more lasted this blissful life,
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Till the knight whose story I discuss,
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Of Caer-rhud, and called Arveragus,
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Determined to go and live a year or twain,
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In England, that was also called Britain,
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To seek in arms both worship and honour,
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For all his pleasure won he from such labour,
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And dwelt there two years; the book says thus.
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Now I’ll cease to speak of Arveragus,
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And I will speak of Dorigen his wife,
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That loved her husband as her heart’s life.
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At his absence she wept sore and sighed,
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As does when she will the noblest bride.
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She mourned, waked, wailed, fasted, cried;
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While longing for his presence thus denied,
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So that all this wide world she set at naught.
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Her friends, who knew the burden of her thought,
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Comforted her, when they could, in every way.
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They preached at her, telling her night and day,
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That she was killing herself, in vain, alas!
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And every comfort possible that was
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Useful they gave, made it all their business,
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To try and put and end to her heaviness.
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By a slow process, known to everyone,
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Men may carve away so long in stone
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That some figure may thus imprinted be.
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So long had they comforted her that she
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Received, through hope and through reason,
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The imprint of their endless consolation,
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And they began her sorrow to assuage;
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She must not always let her feelings rage.
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And Arveragus, amongst all this care,
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Had sent letters, speaking of his welfare,
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And how he would return swiftly again;
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Else this sorrow would her heart have slain.
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Her friends saw her sorrow start to abate,
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And begged her on their knees, for God’s sake,
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To come and roam about in company,
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To drive away her gloomy fantasy.
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And finally she granted their request,
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Because she saw that it was for the best.
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Now, her castle stood close by the sea,
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And often with her friends wandered she,
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To take her pleasure, on a bank full high,
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Where she saw many a ship and barge go by,
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Sailing their course, wherever they chanced to go.
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But that too was a portion of her woe,
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For to herself, full oft, ‘Alas!’ said she,
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‘Is there no ship, of all these that I see,
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Will bring me my lord again? Then my heart
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Would be cured of bitter sorrow’s smart.’
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At other times she would sit and think,
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And cast her eyes downward from the brink.
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Yet when she saw the ghastly rocks all black,
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For fear indeed her heart would almost crack,
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On her feet she could scarce herself maintain.
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Then would she sit upon the grass again,
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And piteously the flowing tide behold,
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And speak as thus, with sorrowful sighs cold:
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‘Eternal God that through your providence
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Lead the world in certain governance,
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You made nothing in vain and yet, alack,
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Lord, these fiendish, grisly rocks all black,
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That seem to me rather a foul confusion
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In their work, than any fair creation
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Of such a wise and perfect God, thus able,
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Why have you wrought this work unreasonable?
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For by this work, south, north, west or east
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There is nurtured neither man nor beast.
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It does no good, to my mind, but annoys.
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See you not, Lord, how mankind it destroys?
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A hundred thousand souls, among mankind
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These rocks have slain, no more brought to mind;
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Yet mankind’s so fair a portion of your work
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You made it in your image, says the clerk.
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153
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Thus it seems you had both love and charity
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Towards mankind; so how then may it be
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That you created such means to destroy?
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– Which do no good, but evermore annoy.
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I know, indeed, that clerics will attest,
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To arguments, that show all’s for the best,
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Though what the reasons are I do not know.
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But may the God that made the winds to blow
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Keep safe my lord! – That is my conclusion.
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To clerks I leave all the disputation.
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But would to God that all these rocks so black
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164
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Were sunken into Hell, and came not back,
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For his sake, they slay my heart with fear!’
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– Thus she did say, with many a piteous tear.
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Her friends could see she derived no sport
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Roaming by the sea, but pure discomfort,
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And chose to take their pleasure somewhere else.
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They led her among rivers, and by wells,
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And through other places all delightful;
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Danced, played chess, backgammon, to be helpful.
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So one day, right in the morning-tide,
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Unto a garden that was there beside,
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Into which had been taken as they planned
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Victuals and other things at their command,
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They went to sport and play the livelong day.
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And this was on the sixth morn in May,
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When May had painted with his softest showers
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The garden, filled with leaves and with flowers;
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And man’s handicraft so skilfully
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Arrayed had all this garden, truthfully,
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That never was there a garden so prized,
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Unless it were the ancient Paradise.
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The odour of flowers and the fresh sight
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Would have rendered any heart light
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That ever was born, unless some great sickness
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Or great sorrow consumed it with distress,
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So full it was of beauty and elegance.
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190
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And after dinner they began to dance
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And sing as well, save Dorigen alone,
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Who ever made plaint, and ever made moan,
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For in the dance she saw not him below,
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Who was her husband and her love also.
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195
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But nonetheless she must a while abide,
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Be of good hope, and let her sorrow slide.
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197
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Now in this dance, among the other men,
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198
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There pranced a squire before Dorigen,
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199
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Who fresher was and jollier in array,
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200
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As I do live, than is the month of May.
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201
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He sang and danced better than any man,
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202
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That is, or was, since ever the world began.
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203
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And then he was, if I should him describe,
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One of the handsomest of men alive;
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Young, strong, right virtuous, and rich and wise,
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206
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And well beloved, considered a great prize.
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207
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And briefly, truth to tell, as I recall,
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208
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Unbeknown to Dorigen at all,
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209
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This gallant squire, a servant true of Venus,
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210
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Who by name was called Aurelius,
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211
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Had loved her the best of any creature,
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212
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As was his fate, for two years and more,
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213
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But never dared proclaim his suffering;
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214
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He drank his sorrow straight from the spring.
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215
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He had despaired; nothing he dared say,
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216
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Save in his songs something he’d convey
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217
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Of all his woe, while generally lamenting.
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218
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He said he loved, but was beloved by nothing.
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219
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Of such matter he made many lays,
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220
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Songs, plaints, rondeaux and virelais,
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221
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How that he dare not of his sorrow tell,
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222
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But languished as a Fury does in Hell;
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223
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And die he must, he said, as did Echo,
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224
|
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For Narcissus, who dared not tell her woe.
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225
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In no other manner than this, as I say,
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226
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Dare he to her his woe at all betray;
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227
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Save that, perhaps, sometimes at a dance,
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228
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Where the young folk will keep observance,
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229
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It may well be he looked upon her face
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230
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In such a manner as man asks for grace,
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231
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Though she knew nothing of his intent.
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232
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Nonetheless, it chanced, ere they went thence,
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233
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Because he happened to be her neighbour,
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234
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And was a man of good repute and honour,
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235
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And she had known him some time before,
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236
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They fell to talking, and more and more
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237
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Towards his purpose drew Aurelius.
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238
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And when he saw his chance, he spoke up thus:
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239
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‘Madame,’ quoth he, ‘by God who this world made,
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240
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If I had known your heart felt no dismay,
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241
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I wish that day when your Arveragus
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242
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Crossed the sea, that I, Aurelius,
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243
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Had gone too, never to return again.
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244
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For I see now my service is but vain;
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245
|
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My reward is but the breaking of my heart.
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246
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Madame, have pity on my bitter smart,
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247
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For with a word you may me slay or save.
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248
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Here at your feet, would God, they dug my grave!
|
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249
|
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I have no time to say what I would say;
|
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250
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Have mercy, sweet, or death is mine today.’
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| |
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251
|
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She began to stare at Aurelius.
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252
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‘Is that your thought,’ quoth she, ‘and say you thus?
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253
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Never have I suspected what you meant.
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254
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But now, Aurelius, knowing your intent,
|
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255
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By that God who gave me soul and life,
|
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256
|
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Know, I shall never play the faithless wife
|
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257
|
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In word or deed, as far as I have wit;
|
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258
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I will be his to whom I have been knit.
|
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259
|
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Take that for a final answer now from me.’
|
|
260
|
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But after it teasingly thus said she:
|
| |
|
261
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‘Aurelius, by the high God above,
|
|
262
|
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As I wish I might have been your love,
|
|
263
|
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Since I hear you so piteously complain.
|
|
264
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Lo, that day when from Brittany’s main,
|
|
265
|
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You remove every reef, stone by stone,
|
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266
|
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So no ship is hampered through that zone –
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267
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I say, when the coast is rendered so clean
|
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268
|
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Of rocks, that never a stone can be seen –
|
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269
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Then I will love you more than any man.
|
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270
|
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Hear my truth said, as plainly as I can.’
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| |
|
271
|
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‘Is there no better grace in you?’ quoth he.
|
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272
|
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‘No, by the Lord,’ quoth she, ‘who fashioned me,
|
|
273
|
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For I know full well it shall never betide.
|
|
274
|
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Let such folly out of your heart slide!
|
|
275
|
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|
What pleasure is added thus to a man’s life
|
|
276
|
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In making love to another man’s wife,
|
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277
|
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Who can have her body when he will?
|
| |
|
278
|
|
|
Aurelius was ever in deeps sighs still;
|
|
279
|
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|
Woe was Aurelieus, when this he heard,
|
|
280
|
|
|
And with sorrowful heart he answered her:
|
|
281
|
|
|
‘Madame, to lose you is impossible!
|
|
282
|
|
|
So let death come, sudden and horrible.’
|
|
283
|
|
|
– And with that he turned away anon.
|
|
284
|
|
|
Her other friends appeared, many a one,
|
|
285
|
|
|
And in the alleyways roamed up and down,
|
|
286
|
|
|
Knowing nothing of this sad conclusion.
|
|
287
|
|
|
And suddenly the revels began anew,
|
|
288
|
|
|
Till the bright sun had lost his yellow hue,
|
|
289
|
|
|
Since the horizon robbed them of his light –
|
|
290
|
|
|
Which is as much as to say, that it was night.
|
|
291
|
|
|
And home they went, in joy and in solace,
|
|
292
|
|
|
Save only poor Aurelius, alas!
|
|
293
|
|
|
He to his house has gone, with sorrowful heart.
|
|
294
|
|
|
That he and death shall not be long apart,
|
|
295
|
|
|
He feels, and senses his heart grow cold.
|
|
296
|
|
|
Up to the heavens he his hands does hold,
|
|
297
|
|
|
On his bare knees then he sets him down,
|
|
298
|
|
|
And in a rage of feeling says his orison.
|
|
299
|
|
|
For woe his wits were addled in his head;
|
|
300
|
|
|
He knew not what he spoke, but thus he said.
|
|
301
|
|
|
With piteous heart his plaint was thus begun
|
|
302
|
|
|
Unto the gods, and first unto the sun.
|
| |
|
303
|
|
|
‘Apollo,’ said he, ‘God and governor
|
|
304
|
|
|
Of every plant, and herb, tree and flower,
|
|
305
|
|
|
Who gives, according to your declination,
|
|
306
|
|
|
To each of them its time and season,
|
|
307
|
|
|
As your position changes, low or high,
|
|
308
|
|
|
Lord Phoebus, cast now your merciful eye
|
|
309
|
|
|
On sad Aurelius, wretched and forlorn!
|
|
310
|
|
|
Lo, Lord, my lady now my death has sworn
|
|
311
|
|
|
Though I am guiltless, your benignity
|
|
312
|
|
|
Upon my doomed heart may yet take pity.
|
|
313
|
|
|
For I know, Lord Phoebus, if you wished,
|
|
314
|
|
|
You, save for my lady, could help me best.
|
|
315
|
|
|
Now vouchsafe me that I might advise
|
|
316
|
|
|
You how I may be helped, and in what wise.
|
| |
|
317
|
|
|
Luna, your sister blest, who bright does sheen,
|
|
318
|
|
|
And of the sea is chief goddess and queen,
|
|
319
|
|
|
(Though Neptune has the mastery of the sea,
|
|
320
|
|
|
Yet empress high above him still is she),
|
|
321
|
|
|
You know, Lord, that just as her desire
|
|
322
|
|
|
Is to be quickened, lighted from your fire,
|
|
323
|
|
|
And thus she follows you diligently,
|
|
324
|
|
|
So does the sea desire, naturally,
|
|
325
|
|
|
To follow her, since she is the goddess
|
|
326
|
|
|
Of both the sea and rivers, great and less.
|
|
327
|
|
|
Wherefore, Lord Phoebus, this is my request –
|
|
328
|
|
|
Perform this miracle, or my heart may burst –
|
|
329
|
|
|
That even now at your next opposition,
|
|
330
|
|
|
When you are in the sign of the Lion,
|
|
331
|
|
|
Beg that she so great a flood will bring
|
|
332
|
|
|
That five fathom at the least it may spring
|
|
333
|
|
|
Higher than the highest rock in Brittany,
|
|
334
|
|
|
And for two years let this great flood be.
|
|
335
|
|
|
Then, surely, to my lady I may say,
|
|
336
|
|
|
“Hold to your pledge; the rocks are all away.”
|
| |
|
337
|
|
|
‘Lord Phoebus, do this miracle for me:
|
|
338
|
|
|
Ask her to run her course no more swiftly
|
|
339
|
|
|
Than you, I say, request that your sister go
|
|
340
|
|
|
No faster than you, these two years though.
|
|
341
|
|
|
Then she will be at full the entire way,
|
|
342
|
|
|
And the spring flood last both night and day.
|
|
343
|
|
|
And if she’ll not vouchsafe in that manner,
|
|
344
|
|
|
To grant to me my sovereign lady dear,
|
|
345
|
|
|
Beg her to sink each rock deeper down
|
|
346
|
|
|
Into her own dark region underground
|
|
347
|
|
|
The shadowy kingdom Pluto dwells in,
|
|
348
|
|
|
Or nevermore shall I my lady win.
|
|
349
|
|
|
Your temple at Delphi I’ll barefoot seek,
|
|
350
|
|
|
Lord Phoebus, see the tears run down my cheek,
|
|
351
|
|
|
And on my pain have some compassion!’
|
|
352
|
|
|
And with that he swooned after a fashion,
|
|
353
|
|
|
And lay on the ground a long time in a trance.
|
| |
|
354
|
|
|
His brother, who knew of this mischance,
|
|
355
|
|
|
Caught him up, and to bed had him brought.
|
|
356
|
|
|
Despairing, filled with his tormented thought,
|
|
357
|
|
|
I’ll leave this sorrowing creature there to lie;
|
|
358
|
|
|
Let him choose whether he’ll live or die!
|
| |
|
359
|
|
|
Arvegarus, in health, with great honour,
|
|
360
|
|
|
Like one who was of chivalry the flower,
|
|
361
|
|
|
Is home again, with other noblemen.
|
|
362
|
|
|
O joyous are you now, sweet Dorigen,
|
|
363
|
|
|
Who have your gallant husband in your arms,
|
|
364
|
|
|
The fresh knight, the worthy man at arms,
|
|
365
|
|
|
Who loves you as he loves his own heart’s life!
|
|
366
|
|
|
Nothing made him suspect that to his wife
|
|
367
|
|
|
Any man had spoken, while he voyaged about,
|
|
368
|
|
|
Of love indeed, nor was he plagued with doubt.
|
|
369
|
|
|
He gave not a thought to any such matter,
|
|
370
|
|
|
But danced, jousted, and made much of her.
|
|
371
|
|
|
And so in joy and bliss I’ll let him dwell,
|
|
372
|
|
|
And of the ill Aurelius I will tell.
|
| |
|
373
|
|
|
Languishing, and in torment furious,
|
|
374
|
|
|
Two years and more lay sad Aurelius,
|
|
375
|
|
|
Before the ground he dare set foot upon.
|
|
376
|
|
|
Of comfort all this time he had none,
|
|
377
|
|
|
Save from his brother, who was a clerk.
|
|
378
|
|
|
He knew of all this woe and all this work;
|
|
379
|
|
|
For to no other creature, it is certain,
|
|
380
|
|
|
Dare he a single word of this explain,
|
|
381
|
|
|
In his breast bore it discretely rather,
|
|
382
|
|
|
More so than Pamphilus for Galatea.
|
|
383
|
|
|
His breast was whole, as outwardly was seen,
|
|
384
|
|
|
But in his heart was ever the arrow keen;
|
|
385
|
|
|
And a wound unhealed, with surface scar,
|
|
386
|
|
|
In surgery is perilous of cure
|
|
387
|
|
|
Unless they touch the arrow, or come thereby.
|
| |
|
388
|
|
|
His brother wept, away from public eye,
|
|
389
|
|
|
Till finally he fell into remembrance
|
|
390
|
|
|
That while he was at Orleans in France –
|
|
391
|
|
|
As students who are young and zealous
|
|
392
|
|
|
To read in arts abstruse and curious
|
|
393
|
|
|
Seek every nook and cranny, in turn,
|
|
394
|
|
|
The recondite sciences for to learn –
|
|
395
|
|
|
He recalled that once, upon a day,
|
|
396
|
|
|
In the college, at Orleans, as I say,
|
|
397
|
|
|
A book of natural magic, he saw
|
|
398
|
|
|
Because his friend a bachelor of law,
|
|
399
|
|
|
Though he was there for other study,
|
|
400
|
|
|
Left it lying, on his desk, discretely.
|
|
401
|
|
|
Which book spoke fully of the operations
|
|
402
|
|
|
Touching the eight and twenty mansions
|
|
403
|
|
|
Belonging to the moon, and suchlike folly,
|
|
404
|
|
|
Considered, in our day, not worth a flea;
|
|
405
|
|
|
For Holy Church’s faith, to our belief
|
|
406
|
|
|
Allows no like illusion to bring grief.
|
|
407
|
|
|
And when this book entered his remembrance,
|
|
408
|
|
|
Swiftly his heart for joy began to dance,
|
|
409
|
|
|
And to himself he said thus, privately:
|
| |
|
410
|
|
|
‘My brother will be cured right swiftly;
|
|
411
|
|
|
For I am certain there are true sciences
|
|
412
|
|
|
By which men conjure up appearances,
|
|
413
|
|
|
Such as the subtlest conjurors display.
|
|
414
|
|
|
For often at feasts, have I heard men say,
|
|
415
|
|
|
Conjurors within a hall, full large,
|
|
416
|
|
|
Have filled a space with water and a barge,
|
|
417
|
|
|
And in the hall have rowed up and down.
|
|
418
|
|
|
Sometimes a grim lion have they shown,
|
|
419
|
|
|
And sometimes flowers sprang up instead,
|
|
420
|
|
|
Sometimes a vine with grapes white and red,
|
|
421
|
|
|
Sometimes a castle, all of lime and stone,
|
|
422
|
|
|
And when they chose, they banished it, anon;
|
|
423
|
|
|
Or so it seemed, to everyone in sight.
|
| |
|
424
|
|
|
‘Now then, I deduce, that if I might
|
|
425
|
|
|
At Orleans some old learned fellow find
|
|
426
|
|
|
Who has the lunar mansions in his mind
|
|
427
|
|
|
Or other natural magic, as above,
|
|
428
|
|
|
He could ensure my brother had his love.
|
|
429
|
|
|
For by illusions a learned man, in fact,
|
|
430
|
|
|
Could make men think that all the rocks black
|
|
431
|
|
|
Of Brittany had vanished every one,
|
|
432
|
|
|
And ships along the shore might go and come,
|
|
433
|
|
|
And then maintain the sight a week or so,
|
|
434
|
|
|
So may my brother be cured of his woe;
|
|
435
|
|
|
Then she must keep to all her promises,
|
|
436
|
|
|
Or bring shame on herself, I’d suggest.’
|
|
437
|
|
|
Why must I make a longer tale of this?
|
|
438
|
|
|
To his brother’s bed he came, and all his
|
|
439
|
|
|
Comfort brought, urging him to be gone
|
|
440
|
|
|
To Orleans, that he started up anon,
|
|
441
|
|
|
And forward on the road did he fare,
|
|
442
|
|
|
Hoping to be eased of all his care.
|
| |
|
443
|
|
|
When they had almost come to that city,
|
|
444
|
|
|
Only two furlongs short, or maybe three,
|
|
445
|
|
|
A young clerk, roaming by himself, they met,
|
|
446
|
|
|
Who greeted them in Latin, at the outset,
|
|
447
|
|
|
With great politeness, and this wondrous thing:
|
|
448
|
|
|
‘I know,’ quoth he,’ the reason for your coming
|
|
449
|
|
|
And before a foot more they onward went,
|
|
450
|
|
|
He told them all about their true intent.
|
| |
|
451
|
|
|
Our Breton scholar asks him then to say
|
|
452
|
|
|
What has become of scholars of past days,
|
|
453
|
|
|
Whom he once knew: dead as it appears,
|
|
454
|
|
|
At which he weeps a plethora of tears.
|
| |
|
455
|
|
|
Down from his horse Aurelius got, anon,
|
|
456
|
|
|
And with the magician forth was gone
|
|
457
|
|
|
Home to his house: he set them at their ease.
|
|
458
|
|
|
They lacked no refreshment that could please;
|
|
459
|
|
|
So well provisioned a house as was this one
|
|
460
|
|
|
Aurelius in all his life had seen none.
|
| |
|
461
|
|
|
Conjured for him, ere they went to supper,
|
|
462
|
|
|
Were forests, parks, filled with wild deer;
|
|
463
|
|
|
Where he saw stags with antlers high,
|
|
464
|
|
|
The largest ever seen by human eye.
|
|
465
|
|
|
He saw a hundred of them slain by hounds,
|
|
466
|
|
|
Some, shot by arrows, bled from bitter wounds.
|
|
467
|
|
|
And when they had all vanished, these wild deer,
|
|
468
|
|
|
Came falconers beside a river fair,
|
|
469
|
|
|
Who with their hawks had many heron slain.
|
|
470
|
|
|
Then he saw knights jousting on a plain;
|
|
471
|
|
|
And after this in conjured elegance,
|
|
472
|
|
|
He saw his lady there as she did dance,
|
|
473
|
|
|
And he himself was dancing, as he thought.
|
|
474
|
|
|
And when the master who this magic wrought
|
|
475
|
|
|
Saw it was time, he clapped his hands, and lo,
|
|
476
|
|
|
Farewell all our revel, it vanished so!
|
|
477
|
|
|
And yet they had not moved from the house,
|
|
478
|
|
|
While viewing all this sight so marvellous,
|
|
479
|
|
|
But in his study, with his books, the three
|
|
480
|
|
|
Of them sat still, and no one else to see.
|
| |
|
481
|
|
|
His squire then was summoned by the master,
|
|
482
|
|
|
Who said to him: ‘Is all prepared for supper?
|
|
483
|
|
|
Almost an hour it is, and no mistake,
|
|
484
|
|
|
Since I bade you our supper swiftly make,
|
|
485
|
|
|
While these worthy men I took with me
|
|
486
|
|
|
Into the study, to view my library.’
|
|
487
|
|
|
‘Sire’ quoth the squire, ‘I’ll make a vow
|
|
488
|
|
|
That it is ready, you may eat right now.’
|
|
489
|
|
|
‘Let us go sup, then, ‘quoth he, ‘that is best.
|
|
490
|
|
|
Amorous people too must sometimes rest!’
|
| |
|
491
|
|
|
After the supper they bargained freely
|
|
492
|
|
|
As to what sum the master’s prize should be
|
|
493
|
|
|
For removing all the rocks from Brittany,
|
|
494
|
|
|
From Gironde too, to the Seine’s estuary.
|
| |
|
495
|
|
|
He showed reluctance, swore, for God’s sake,
|
|
496
|
|
|
Less than a thousand pounds he would not take,
|
|
497
|
|
|
Certainly, for that sum he would have none.
|
| |
|
498
|
|
|
Aurelius with blissful heart anon
|
|
499
|
|
|
Answered thus: ‘Fie on your thousand pound!
|
|
500
|
|
|
This wide world of ours, men say is round,
|
|
501
|
|
|
I would give that, if I were lord of it!
|
|
502
|
|
|
The bargain’s made, take what you think fit;
|
|
503
|
|
|
You shall be paid, truly, on my oath.
|
|
504
|
|
|
But look you now, no negligence or sloth
|
|
505
|
|
|
Must keep us here longer than tomorrow.’
|
|
506
|
|
|
‘Nay,’ quoth the scholar, ‘on my faith, I vow.’
|
| |
|
507
|
|
|
Aurelius went to bed, as he thought best,
|
|
508
|
|
|
And well nigh all that night he took his rest.
|
|
509
|
|
|
Tired with his labour, yet with hopes of bliss,
|
|
510
|
|
|
Ease to his woeful heart came not amiss.
|
| |
|
511
|
|
|
On the morrow, as soon as it was day,
|
|
512
|
|
|
To Brittany they rode the nearest way,
|
|
513
|
|
|
Aurelius, with the scholar at his side,
|
|
514
|
|
|
And descended, where they would abide.
|
|
515
|
|
|
It was, then, say the books, as I remember,
|
|
516
|
|
|
The cold and frosty season, in December.
|
| |
|
517
|
|
|
Phoebus waxed old, and in this station
|
|
518
|
|
|
Dull brass was he, who in high declination
|
|
519
|
|
|
Shines like burnished gold with rays so bright;
|
|
520
|
|
|
But now in Capricorn he shed his light,
|
|
521
|
|
|
Where full pale he shone, I dare maintain.
|
|
522
|
|
|
The bitter frosts, with winter’s sleet and rain,
|
|
523
|
|
|
All the garden greenery had interred.
|
|
524
|
|
|
Janus sat by the fire with double beard,
|
|
525
|
|
|
And from his bugle-horn he supped his wine,
|
|
526
|
|
|
Before him brawn of the sharp-tusked swine,
|
|
527
|
|
|
And ‘Sing, Noel!’ cried every lusty man.
|
| |
|
528
|
|
|
Aurelius, doing all that ever a man can
|
|
529
|
|
|
Gave the master good cheer and reverence,
|
|
530
|
|
|
And prayed him to employ his diligence
|
|
531
|
|
|
To release him from his pain’s fierce smart,
|
|
532
|
|
|
Or plunge a sword into his very heart.
|
| |
|
533
|
|
|
The subtle clerk took pity on the man
|
|
534
|
|
|
And night and day as swiftly as one can
|
|
535
|
|
|
Sought out a time to achieve conclusion,
|
|
536
|
|
|
That is to say create the right illusion
|
|
537
|
|
|
By deft appearance, conjuror’s mystery –
|
|
538
|
|
|
I lack the terms for such astrology –
|
|
539
|
|
|
That she and everyone would think and say
|
|
540
|
|
|
That from Brittany the rocks were all away,
|
|
541
|
|
|
Or else had been sunken underground.
|
|
542
|
|
|
So, at last, the proper date was found
|
|
543
|
|
|
To try his tricks and work the wretchedness
|
|
544
|
|
|
Of all such superstitious cursedness.
|
|
545
|
|
|
His Toledan tables forth he brought,
|
|
546
|
|
|
Rightly corrected, so he lacked for naught,
|
|
547
|
|
|
Neither for blocks nor individual years,
|
|
548
|
|
|
Nor to fix the root, lacked nothing here
|
|
549
|
|
|
For his equations of centre, argument,
|
|
550
|
|
|
And the proportionals convenient
|
|
551
|
|
|
For the calculation of everything:
|
|
552
|
|
|
So, from the stars’ eighth sphere, in his working,
|
|
553
|
|
|
How far the moon’s first mansion had moved
|
|
554
|
|
|
From the first point of Aries above,
|
|
555
|
|
|
That in the ninth sphere considered is;
|
|
556
|
|
|
Full subtly he calculated this.
|
| |
|
557
|
|
|
When he had located the first mansion,
|
|
558
|
|
|
He knew all the rest by due proportion,
|
|
559
|
|
|
And in which sign the moon rose he knew well
|
|
560
|
|
|
And in which face and term, and so could tell
|
|
561
|
|
|
Which was now the moon’s precise mansion,
|
|
562
|
|
|
As a result of all this operation:
|
|
563
|
|
|
And he knew the right observances,
|
|
564
|
|
|
To create such illusions and mischances
|
|
565
|
|
|
As heathen folk employed in olden days.
|
|
566
|
|
|
After which there were no more delays,
|
|
567
|
|
|
And through his magic, for two weeks I’d say,
|
|
568
|
|
|
It seemed that all the rocks were cleared away.
|
| |
|
569
|
|
|
Aurelius, still in despair through all of this,
|
|
570
|
|
|
As to whether he’d have his love or fare amiss,
|
|
571
|
|
|
Waited night and day to see this miracle.
|
|
572
|
|
|
And when he knew there was no obstacle –
|
|
573
|
|
|
And that the rocks had vanished every one –
|
|
574
|
|
|
Down at the master’s feet he fell anon,
|
|
575
|
|
|
And said: ‘I, woeful wretch, Aurelius,
|
|
576
|
|
|
Thank you, lord, and my lady Venus,
|
|
577
|
|
|
Who have freed me from my cares cold!’
|
|
578
|
|
|
And to the temple then away did go,
|
|
579
|
|
|
To where he knew he should his lady see.
|
|
580
|
|
|
And when he saw his opportunity,
|
|
581
|
|
|
With fearful heart, full humbly did appear,
|
|
582
|
|
|
And greeted then his sovereign lady dear.
|
| |
|
583
|
|
|
‘My true lady,’ quoth this woeful man,
|
|
584
|
|
|
‘Whom I most dread and love, deep as I can,
|
|
585
|
|
|
Whom I would in this world least displease,
|
|
586
|
|
|
Had I not suffered for you such miseries
|
|
587
|
|
|
That I must die here at your feet anon,
|
|
588
|
|
|
I’d not have shown that I was woebegone.
|
|
589
|
|
|
But surely I must die, or still complain;
|
|
590
|
|
|
You slay me, guiltless, merely from the pain.
|
|
591
|
|
|
But though to sorrow for my death you’re loath,
|
|
592
|
|
|
Think a while before you break your oath.
|
|
593
|
|
|
Repent you so, and think of God above,
|
|
594
|
|
|
Before you punish me who seek your love.
|
|
595
|
|
|
For, Madame, now recall the pledge I cite –
|
|
596
|
|
|
Though I may claim nothing of you by right
|
|
597
|
|
|
My sovereign lady, but only ask your grace –
|
|
598
|
|
|
Yet in the garden, yonder, in that place,
|
|
599
|
|
|
You well know what you have sworn to me,
|
|
600
|
|
|
And there your troth you plighted loyally
|
|
601
|
|
|
To love me best – God’s witness, you said so,
|
|
602
|
|
|
Albeit that I am unworthy though.
|
|
603
|
|
|
Madame, your honour I speak for, I vow,
|
|
604
|
|
|
More than to save my heart’s life right now:
|
|
605
|
|
|
I have done all that you commanded me,
|
|
606
|
|
|
And if you deign to, you may go and see.
|
|
607
|
|
|
Do as you will; yet have your oath in mind,
|
|
608
|
|
|
For quick or dead, there you shall me find.
|
|
609
|
|
|
With you it lies, to save my life or slay;
|
|
610
|
|
|
But true it is the rocks are now away.’
|
| |
|
611
|
|
|
He took his leave, and she astonished stood.
|
|
612
|
|
|
In her whole face was not a drop of blood.
|
|
613
|
|
|
She had thought never to fall into this trap.
|
|
614
|
|
|
‘Alas!’ quoth she, ‘to suffer this mishap!
|
|
615
|
|
|
I thought it an impossibility
|
|
616
|
|
|
That such a monstrous miracle could be!
|
|
617
|
|
|
It defies the processes of nature.’
|
|
618
|
|
|
And home she went, a sorrowful creature;
|
|
619
|
|
|
For fear, indeed, she could scarcely move.
|
|
620
|
|
|
She wept, she wailed there, for a day or two,
|
|
621
|
|
|
And swooned so, that it was sad to see.
|
|
622
|
|
|
But why she did so, not a soul told she,
|
|
623
|
|
|
For far from town was her Arveragus.
|
|
624
|
|
|
Yet to herself she spoke, lamenting thus,
|
|
625
|
|
|
With pallid face, and sorrowful did appear
|
|
626
|
|
|
In her lament, as you may truly hear.
|
| |
|
627
|
|
|
‘Alas, Fortune, of you I will complain,
|
|
628
|
|
|
Who suddenly have snared me in your chain,
|
|
629
|
|
|
To escape from which I find no succour,
|
|
630
|
|
|
Save only death, or else yet dishonour;
|
|
631
|
|
|
One of these two I must clearly choose.
|
|
632
|
|
|
Yet, nonetheless, I had much rather lose
|
|
633
|
|
|
My life, than see my body suffer shame,
|
|
634
|
|
|
Or know myself as false, and lose my name.
|
|
635
|
|
|
And by my death I may be quit of this.
|
|
636
|
|
|
Has not many a noble wife, and foolish
|
|
637
|
|
|
Maiden, slain herself before now, alas,
|
|
638
|
|
|
Rather than bring her body to that pass?
|
| |
|
639
|
|
|
Yes, for certain; lo, these tales bear witness.
|
|
640
|
|
|
When thirty tyrants full of wickedness
|
|
641
|
|
|
Had Phidon slain, in Athens at a feast,
|
|
642
|
|
|
They ordered his daughters to be seized
|
|
643
|
|
|
And brought before them, humbled in their sight,
|
|
644
|
|
|
All naked, to assuage their foul delight,
|
|
645
|
|
|
And in their father’s blood they made them dance
|
|
646
|
|
|
Upon the pavement – God send them mischance!
|
|
647
|
|
|
For which these woeful maidens, full of dread,
|
|
648
|
|
|
Rather than they should lose their maidenheads,
|
|
649
|
|
|
Broke away, and leapt into a well,
|
|
650
|
|
|
And drowned themselves, as the old books tell.
|
| |
|
651
|
|
|
The Messenians requested that men seek
|
|
652
|
|
|
In Lacadaemon, fifty maidens meek,
|
|
653
|
|
|
On whom they might work their lechery.
|
|
654
|
|
|
But there was none of all that company
|
|
655
|
|
|
That did not slay herself, with good intent,
|
|
656
|
|
|
Choosing to die rather than to assent
|
|
657
|
|
|
And be robbed there of their maidenhead.
|
|
658
|
|
|
Why then of death should I remain in dread?
|
|
659
|
|
|
Lo, then, the tyrant, Aristoclides,
|
|
660
|
|
|
Who loved a maiden called Stimphalides,
|
|
661
|
|
|
Who when her father slain was in the night,
|
|
662
|
|
|
Unto Diana’s temple fled outright,
|
|
663
|
|
|
And grasped hold of her statue too,
|
|
664
|
|
|
From which statue she could not be loosed.
|
|
665
|
|
|
No one there could tear her hands away,
|
|
666
|
|
|
Till in that selfsame place, they did her slay.
|
| |
|
667
|
|
|
Since these maidens died before they might
|
|
668
|
|
|
Be defiled by man’s foul appetite,
|
|
669
|
|
|
A wife should rather kill herself than be
|
|
670
|
|
|
Defiled by any man, it seems to me.
|
|
671
|
|
|
What shall I say of Hasdrubal’s fair wife
|
|
672
|
|
|
Who at Carthage deprived herself of life?
|
|
673
|
|
|
For when she knew the Romans had the town,
|
|
674
|
|
|
She took her children all, and so leapt down
|
|
675
|
|
|
Into the fire, and chose to perish there
|
|
676
|
|
|
Rather than any Roman ravage her.
|
|
677
|
|
|
Did not Lucrece slay herself, alas,
|
|
678
|
|
|
At Rome when she oppressed was
|
|
679
|
|
|
By Tarquin, because she thought it shame
|
|
680
|
|
|
To be alive when she had lost her name?
|
|
681
|
|
|
Of Miletus, the seven maids also
|
|
682
|
|
|
Slew themselves indeed, for dread and woe,
|
|
683
|
|
|
Rather than let the Gauls them oppress.
|
|
684
|
|
|
More than a thousand stories, I should guess,
|
|
685
|
|
|
Might I now tell about the matter here.
|
|
686
|
|
|
When Abradatas fell, his wife so dear
|
|
687
|
|
|
Slew herself, and let her life-blood glide
|
|
688
|
|
|
Into Abradatas’ wounds both deep and wide,
|
|
689
|
|
|
And said: “My body, at the least, I say,
|
|
690
|
|
|
No man shall defile, for I go my way.”
|
| |
|
691
|
|
|
What need of more examples, to explain
|
|
692
|
|
|
How so many women themselves have slain
|
|
693
|
|
|
Rather than be defiled, in misery?
|
|
694
|
|
|
I conclude that better it is for me
|
|
695
|
|
|
To slay myself than be defiled thus.
|
|
696
|
|
|
I will be true to my Arveragus,
|
|
697
|
|
|
Or I will slay myself in some way here,
|
|
698
|
|
|
As did Demotion’s daughter dear,
|
|
699
|
|
|
Because she would not defiled be.
|
|
700
|
|
|
O Scedasus, the heart fills with pity
|
|
701
|
|
|
Reading how your daughter died, alas,
|
|
702
|
|
|
Who slew herself in a similar pass.
|
|
703
|
|
|
As great a pity was felt, or even more,
|
|
704
|
|
|
For the Theban maid who foiled Nicanor
|
|
705
|
|
|
And slew herself, a case of equal woe.
|
|
706
|
|
|
Another Theban maiden died also,
|
|
707
|
|
|
Because a Macedonian her oppressed;
|
|
708
|
|
|
Her death repaid her loss of maidenhead.
|
|
709
|
|
|
What shall I say of Niceratus’ wife,
|
|
710
|
|
|
Who in like case bereft herself of life?
|
|
711
|
|
|
How true also to Alcibiades,
|
|
712
|
|
|
His lover was, who chose to die, as these,
|
|
713
|
|
|
Rather than let his body unburied be?
|
|
714
|
|
|
Lo what a wife Alcestis was!’ quoth she.
|
|
715
|
|
|
‘What says Homer of good Penelope?
|
|
716
|
|
|
All Greece knew her wifely chastity.
|
|
717
|
|
|
Of Laodamia is it written thus,
|
|
718
|
|
|
That when at Troy died Protesilaus,
|
|
719
|
|
|
She would no longer live beyond his day.
|
|
720
|
|
|
The same of noble Portia, I may say:
|
|
721
|
|
|
Without Brutus, she too could not live,
|
|
722
|
|
|
For his was all the heart she had to give.
|
|
723
|
|
|
The perfect wife was Artemisia,
|
|
724
|
|
|
Honoured in Barbary by every peer.
|
|
725
|
|
|
O, Teuta, queen, your wifely chastity
|
|
726
|
|
|
To every wife may as a mirror be!
|
|
727
|
|
|
The same thing I may say of Bilia,
|
|
728
|
|
|
Of Rhodogue, and of Valeria.’
|
| |
|
729
|
|
|
So Dorigen, a day or two, did sigh,
|
|
730
|
|
|
Ever purposing that she would die.
|
|
731
|
|
|
But nonetheless, on the third night,
|
|
732
|
|
|
Home came Avergarus, the noble knight,
|
|
733
|
|
|
And asked her why she wept so sore;
|
|
734
|
|
|
At which she began to weep even more.
|
| |
|
735
|
|
|
‘Alas,’ quoth she, ‘that ever I was born!
|
|
736
|
|
|
Thus have I said,’ quoth she, ‘thus have I sworn’ –
|
|
737
|
|
|
And told him all that you have heard before;
|
|
738
|
|
|
No need to repeat it here for you once more.
|
| |
|
739
|
|
|
Her husband, with kind face, in friendly wise,
|
|
740
|
|
|
Answered, and said as I shall now advise:
|
|
741
|
|
|
‘Is there aught else, Dorigen, but this?’
|
|
742
|
|
|
‘Nay, nay,’ quoth she, ‘God help me, as it is,
|
|
743
|
|
|
It is too much, were it God’s own will!’
|
| |
|
744
|
|
|
‘Yet, wife,’ quoth he, ‘let sleep on what is still.
|
|
745
|
|
|
All may be well, perchance, even today.
|
|
746
|
|
|
You must keep your promise, by my faith!
|
|
747
|
|
|
For, and may God have mercy upon me,
|
|
748
|
|
|
I would rather be slain, mercilessly,
|
|
749
|
|
|
For the very love I have for you, I say,
|
|
750
|
|
|
Than that your word you not keep always.
|
|
751
|
|
|
His word is the noblest thing a man may keep.’
|
|
752
|
|
|
– Yet with these words he began to weep,
|
|
753
|
|
|
And said, ‘I forbid you, on pain of death,
|
|
754
|
|
|
Ever, while left to you are life and breath,
|
|
755
|
|
|
To tell a single soul of this adventure.
|
|
756
|
|
|
As I best may, this woe I will endure;
|
|
757
|
|
|
And show you no countenance of heaviness,
|
|
758
|
|
|
Lest folk may think harm of you, or guess.’
|
| |
|
759
|
|
|
He summoned forth a squire and a maid;
|
|
760
|
|
|
‘Go forth anon, with Dorigen’ he said,
|
|
761
|
|
|
‘And bring her to the place she tells, anon.’
|
|
762
|
|
|
They took their leave and on their way were gone,
|
|
763
|
|
|
But they knew not why she thither went;
|
|
764
|
|
|
He told no one at all of his intent.
|
| |
|
765
|
|
|
Perchance a heap of you, a crowd that is,
|
|
766
|
|
|
Consider him a foolish man in this,
|
|
767
|
|
|
Seeking to place his wife in jeopardy.
|
|
768
|
|
|
Hear the tale, then you may judge her truly;
|
|
769
|
|
|
She may have better fortune than it seems;
|
|
770
|
|
|
Judge when you know whether the tale redeems.
|
| |
|
771
|
|
|
That squire, you will remember, Aurelius,
|
|
772
|
|
|
He, who to Dorigen had proved so amorous,
|
|
773
|
|
|
Happened by chance our Dorigen to meet,
|
|
774
|
|
|
In the town, and right in the busiest street,
|
|
775
|
|
|
As she was about to take the road, outright,
|
|
776
|
|
|
To the garden where her troth she did plight.
|
|
777
|
|
|
And he was walking garden-ward also,
|
|
778
|
|
|
For he spied on her wherever she may go
|
|
779
|
|
|
From her house to any manner of place.
|
|
780
|
|
|
So thus they met, by chance or yet by grace,
|
|
781
|
|
|
And he saluted her with glad intent,
|
|
782
|
|
|
And asked her then whitherward she went.
|
|
783
|
|
|
And she answered, as though she were half-mad,
|
|
784
|
|
|
‘Unto the garden as my husband bade,
|
|
785
|
|
|
To keep my word to you, alas, alas!’
|
| |
|
786
|
|
|
Aurelius, stunned at what had come to pass,
|
|
787
|
|
|
Felt, in his heart, a true compassion
|
|
788
|
|
|
For her, and the cause of her lamentation,
|
|
789
|
|
|
And for Arveragus, the worthy knight,
|
|
790
|
|
|
Who bade her keep her word, come what might,
|
|
791
|
|
|
So loath was he to let her stray from the truth.
|
|
792
|
|
|
And in his heart such pity filled the youth,
|
|
793
|
|
|
He thought, considering it from every side,
|
|
794
|
|
|
That he should rather let intention slide,
|
|
795
|
|
|
Than commit such churlish wretchedness
|
|
796
|
|
|
Against generosity and gentleness.
|
|
797
|
|
|
So, briefly, in a few words, he said thus:
|
| |
|
798
|
|
|
‘Madame, say to your lord Arveragus,
|
|
799
|
|
|
That since I perceived his great nobleness,
|
|
800
|
|
|
His treatment of you, in your great distress,
|
|
801
|
|
|
That he would rather be ashamed – sad truth –
|
|
802
|
|
|
Than let you break your word to me, forsooth,
|
|
803
|
|
|
Then I would rather suffer lasting woe
|
|
804
|
|
|
Than ever harm the love between you so.
|
|
805
|
|
|
I release, you, Madame, from your bond,
|
|
806
|
|
|
Quit of every promise, out of hand,
|
|
807
|
|
|
That you have made to me heretofore,
|
|
808
|
|
|
As free as on the day when you were born.
|
|
809
|
|
|
My troth I plight, that I shall never grieve
|
|
810
|
|
|
You for promise given; and take my leave
|
|
811
|
|
|
Of you, the best and the truest wife
|
|
812
|
|
|
That ever I have known in all my life.
|
|
813
|
|
|
Now wives beware of oaths and, for the rest,
|
|
814
|
|
|
Remember Dorigen, let me suggest!
|
|
815
|
|
|
Thus may a squire do a gentle deed
|
|
816
|
|
|
As well as any knight, as you can see.’
|
| |
|
817
|
|
|
She thanked him then, on her knees all bare,
|
|
818
|
|
|
And home to her husband she did fare,
|
|
819
|
|
|
And told him everything you’ve heard said.
|
|
820
|
|
|
You may be sure, he more joy displayed
|
|
821
|
|
|
Than it were possible for me to write.
|
|
822
|
|
|
What more of this story should I cite?
|
|
823
|
|
|
Arveragus and Dorigen his wife
|
|
824
|
|
|
In sovereign bliss lived out their life.
|
|
825
|
|
|
With never any anger there between;
|
|
826
|
|
|
He cherished her as if she were a queen,
|
|
827
|
|
|
And she was true to him for evermore.
|
|
828
|
|
|
Of these two folk, now, you’ll hear no more.
|
| |
|
829
|
|
|
Aurelius, who all the cost had borne,
|
|
830
|
|
|
Cursed the day that ever he was born.
|
|
831
|
|
|
‘Alas,’ quoth he, ‘the promise that I made
|
|
832
|
|
|
Of purest gold a thousand pound in weight
|
|
833
|
|
|
To this philosopher! What shall I do?
|
|
834
|
|
|
I see I must be ruined by loving, too!
|
|
835
|
|
|
My inheritance I needs must sell,
|
|
836
|
|
|
And be a beggar – here I may not dwell,
|
|
837
|
|
|
To shame all my kindred in this place –
|
|
838
|
|
|
And yet he may reveal a better grace.
|
|
839
|
|
|
For nonetheless, perhaps, I might assay
|
|
840
|
|
|
On certain days, year by year, to pay,
|
|
841
|
|
|
And thank him then for his great courtesy.
|
|
842
|
|
|
My word I will keep; no lies for me.’
|
| |
|
843
|
|
|
With sore heart he went to his coffer,
|
|
844
|
|
|
And took his gold to the philosopher,
|
|
845
|
|
|
In value, some five hundred pounds I guess,
|
|
846
|
|
|
And beseeched him, of his gentleness,
|
|
847
|
|
|
To grant him time to pay the remainder;
|
|
848
|
|
|
And said: ‘Master, this boast I make here,
|
|
849
|
|
|
I’ve never failed of my word as yet.
|
|
850
|
|
|
Be sure, I will be quit of all the debt
|
|
851
|
|
|
Towards you, however I may fare,
|
|
852
|
|
|
Though it mean I must beg, and go bare.
|
|
853
|
|
|
If you would vouchsafe, on security,
|
|
854
|
|
|
To give me respite for two years or three,
|
|
855
|
|
|
All would be well, for else I must sell
|
|
856
|
|
|
My heritage; there is no more to tell.’
|
| |
|
857
|
|
|
The philosopher soberly him answered,
|
|
858
|
|
|
And said thus, when he the words had heard:
|
|
859
|
|
|
‘Did I not keep covenant with thee?’
|
|
860
|
|
|
‘Yes, and well and truly, too,’ quoth he.
|
|
861
|
|
|
‘Did you not win your lady, tell no lie?’
|
|
862
|
|
|
‘No, no,’ quoth he, and sorrowfully did sigh.
|
|
863
|
|
|
‘What was the reason? Tell me if you can.’
|
| |
|
864
|
|
|
Aurelius his tale anon began,
|
|
865
|
|
|
And told him all that you have heard before;
|
|
866
|
|
|
No need for me to tell it you once more.
|
|
867
|
|
|
He said: ‘Arveragus, in his nobleness,
|
|
868
|
|
|
Would rather die in sorrow and distress,
|
|
869
|
|
|
Than let his wife to her word be false.’
|
|
870
|
|
|
Dorigen’s sorrow also he told him of,
|
|
871
|
|
|
How loath she was to prove a wicked wife,
|
|
872
|
|
|
Would rather that day have lost her life,
|
|
873
|
|
|
And that she gave her word in all innocence;
|
|
874
|
|
|
She’d never heard of magical disappearance.
|
|
875
|
|
|
‘It made me feel for her such deep pity,
|
|
876
|
|
|
That as freely as he sent her to me,
|
|
877
|
|
|
As freely I sent her to him again.
|
|
878
|
|
|
That’s the long and short; the sense is plain.’
|
| |
|
879
|
|
|
The philosopher replied: ‘My dear brother,
|
|
880
|
|
|
Each of you dealt nobly with the other.
|
|
881
|
|
|
You are a squire, and he is a knight;
|
|
882
|
|
|
But God forbid, in His blissful might,
|
|
883
|
|
|
That a clerk may not do a noble deed
|
|
884
|
|
|
As well as either of you may, indeed!
|
|
885
|
|
|
Sire, I release you from your thousand pounds,
|
|
886
|
|
|
As if you had but now crept out of the ground,
|
|
887
|
|
|
And never, before now, had known of me.
|
|
888
|
|
|
For sire, I will not take a penny from thee
|
|
889
|
|
|
For all my skill, no, naught for my travail.
|
|
890
|
|
|
You have paid well for my bread and ale;
|
|
891
|
|
|
That is enough, and so farewell, good day!’
|
|
892
|
|
|
And then to horse, and forth he took his way.
|
| |
|
893
|
|
|
Lordings, this question will I ask you now:
|
|
894
|
|
|
Who was the most generous, sayest thou?
|
|
895
|
|
|
Now tell me that, ere you farther wend!
|
|
896
|
|
|
I can no more; my tale is at an end.
|
| |
