The Canterbury Tales · The Franklin’s Tale · The Tale (1/3)

The Tale

In Armoric’, that called is Bretagne,

There was a knight, that lov’d and did his pain3219

To serve a lady in his bestë wise;

And many a labour, many a great emprise,

He for his lady wrought, ere she were won:

For she was one the fairest under sun,

And eke thereto come of so high kindréd,

That well unnethës3220 durst this knight, for dread,

Tell her his woe, his pain, and his distress.

But, at the last, she for his worthiness,

And namëly3221 for his meek obeisánce,

Hath such a pity caught of his penánce,3222

That privily she fell of his accord

To take him for her husband and her lord

(Of such lordship as men have o’er their wives);

And, for to lead the more in bliss their lives,

Of his free will he swore her as a knight,

That never in all his life he day nor night

Should take upon himself no mastery

Against her will, nor kithe3223 her jealousy,

But her obey, and follow her will in all,

As any lover to his lady shall;

Save that the name of sovereignëty

That would he have, for shame of his degree.

She thanked him, and with full great humbléss

She saidë; “Sir, since of your gentleness

Ye proffer me to have so large a reign,

Ne wouldë God never betwixt us twain,

As in my guilt, were either war or strife:3224

Sir, I will be your humble truë wife,

Have here my troth, till that my heartë brest.”3225

Thus be they both in quiet and in rest.

For one thing, Sirës, safely dare I say,

That friends ever each other must obey,

If they will longë hold in company.

Love will not be constrain’d by mastery.

When mast’ry comes, the god of love anon

Beateth3226 his wings, and, farewell, he is gone.

Love is a thing as any spirit free.

Women of kind3227 desirë liberty,

And not to be constrained as a thrall;3228

And so do men, if soothly I say shall.

Look who that is most patiént in love,

He is at his advantage all above.3229

Patience is a high virtúe certáin,

For it vanquísheth, as these clerkës sayn,

Thingës that rigour never should attain.

For every word men may not chide or plain.

Learnë to suffer, or, so may I go,3230

Ye shall it learn whether ye will or no.

For in this world certáin no wight there is,

That he not doth or saith sometimes amiss.

Ire, or sicknéss, or constellatión,3231

Wine, woe, or changing of complexión,

Causeth full oft to do amiss or speaken:

On every wrong a man may not be wreaken.3232

After3233 the timë must be temperance

To every wight that can of3234 governance.

And therefore hath this worthy wisë knight

(To live in easë) suff’rance her behight;3235

And she to him full wisly3236 gan to swear

That never should there be default in her.

Here may men see a humble wife accord;

Thus hath she ta’en her servant and her lord,

Servant in love, and lord in marriáge.

Then was he both in lordship and servage?

Servage? nay, but in lordship all above,

Since he had both his lady and his love:

His lady certes, and his wife also,

The which that law of love accordeth to.

And when he was in this prosperity,

Home with his wife he went to his country,

Not far from Penmark,3237 where his dwelling was,

And there he liv’d in bliss and in solace.3238

Who couldë tell, but3239 he had wedded be,

The joy, the ease, and the prosperity,

That is betwixt a husband and his wife?

A year and more lasted this blissful life,

Till that this knight, of whom I spakë thus,

That of Cairrud3240 was call’d Arviragus,

Shope3241 him to go and dwell a year or twain

In Engleland, that call’d was eke Britáin,

To seek in armës worship and honoúr

(For all his lust3242 he set in such laboúr);

And dwelled there two years; the book saith thus.

Now will I stint3243 of this Arviragus,

And speak I will of Dorigen his wife,

That lov’d her husband as her heartë’s life.

For his abséncë weepeth she and siketh,3244

As do these noble wivës when them liketh;

She mourneth, waketh, waileth, fasteth, plaineth;

Desire of his presénce her so distraineth,

That all this widë world she set at nought.

Her friendës, which that knew her heavy thought,

Comfórtë her in all that ever they may;

They preachë her, they tell her night and day,

That causëless she slays herself, alas!

And every comfort possible in this case

They do to her, with all their business,3245

And all to make her leave her heaviness.

By process, as ye knowen every one,

Men may so longë graven in a stone,

Till some figúre therein imprinted be:

So long have they comfórted her, till she

Received hath, by hope and by reasón,

Th’ imprinting of their consolatión,

Through which her greatë sorrow gan assuage;

She may not always duren in such rage.

And eke Arviragus, in all this care,

Hath sent his letters home of his welfare,

And that he will come hastily again,

Or ellës had this sorrow her hearty-slain.

Her friendës saw her sorrow gin to slake,3246

And prayed her on knees for Goddë’s sake

To come and roamen in their company,

Away to drive her darkë fantasy;

And finally she granted that request,

For well she saw that it was for the best.

Now stood her castle fastë by the sea,

And often with her friendës walked she,

Her to disport upon the bank on high,

There as many a ship and bargë sigh,3247

Sailing their courses, where them list to go.

But then was that a parcel3248 of her woe,

For to herself full oft, “Alas!” said she,

“Is there no ship, of so many as I see,

Will bringë home my lord? then were my heart

All warish’d3249 of this bitter painë’s smart.”

Another timë would she sit and think,

And cast her eyen downward from the brink;

But when she saw the grisly rockës blake,3250

For very fear so would her heartë quake,

That on her feet she might her not sustene:

Then would she sit adown upon the green,

And piteously into the sea behold,3251

And say right thus, with careful sikës3252 cold:

“Eternal God! that through thy purveyánce

Leadest this world by certain governance,

In idle,3253 as men say, ye nothing make;

But, Lord, these grisly fiendly rockës blake,

That seem rather a foul confusión

Of work, than any fair creatión

Of such a perfect wisë God and stable,

Why have ye wrought this work unreasonáble?

For by this work, north, south, or west, or east,

There is not foster’d man, nor bird, nor beast:

It doth no good, to my wit, but annoyeth.3254

See ye not, Lord, how mankind it destroyeth?

A hundred thousand bodies of mankind

Have rockës slain, all be they not in mind;3255

Which mankind is so fair part of thy work,

Thou madest it like to thine owen mark.3256

Then seemed it ye had a great cherté3257

Toward mankind; but how then may it be

That ye such meanës make it to destroy?

Which meanës do no good, but ever annoy.

I wot well, clerkës will say as them lest,3258

By arguments, that all is for the best,

Although I can the causes not y-know;

But thilkë3259 God that made the wind to blow,

As keep my lord, this is my conclusión:

To clerks leave I all disputatión:

But would to God that all these rockës blake

Were sunken into hellë for his sake!

These rockës slay mine heartë for the fear.”

Thus would she say, with many a piteous tear.

Her friendës saw that it was no disport

To roamë by the sea, but discomfórt,

And shope them for to playë somewhere else.

They leadë her by rivers and by wells,

And eke in other places delectábles;

They dancen, and they play at chess and tables.

So on a day, right in the morning-tide,

Unto a garden that was there beside,

In which that they had made their ordinance3260

Of victual, and of other purveyánce,

They go and play them all the longë day:

And this was on the sixth morrow of May,

Which May had painted with his softë show’rs

This garden full of leavës and of flow’rs:

And craft of mannë’s hand so curiously

Arrayed had this garden truëly,

That never was there garden of such price,3261

But if it were the very Paradise.

Th’ odoúr of flowers, and the freshë sight,

Would havë maked any heartë light

That e’er was born, but if3262 too great sicknéss

Or too great sorrow held it in distress;

So full it was of beauty and pleasánce.

And after dinner they began to dance

And sing also, save Dorigen alone,

Who made alway her cómplaint and her moan,

For she saw not him on the dancë go

That was her husband, and her love also;

But natheless she must a time abide,

And with good hopë let her sorrow slide.

Upon this dance, amongë other men,

Danced a squiër before Dorigen,

That fresher was, and jollier of array,

As to my doom,3263 than is the month of May.

He sang and danced, passing any man

That is or was since that the world began;

Therewith he was, if men should him descrive,

One of the bestë faring3264 men alive,

Young, strong, and virtuous, and rich, and wise,

And well belov’d, and holden in great price.3265

And, shortly if the sooth I tellë shall,

Unweeting3266 of this Dorigen at all,

This lusty squiër, servant to Venús,

Which that y-called was Aurelius,

Had lov’d her best of any creatúre

Two year and more, as was his áventúre;3267

But never durst he tell her his grievánce;

Withoutë cup he drank all his penánce.

He was despaired, nothing durst he say,

Save in his songës somewhat would he wray3268

His woe, as in a general cómplainíng;

He said, he lov’d, and was belov’d nothing.

Of suchë matter made he many lays,

Songës, complaintës, roundels, virëlays;3269

How that he durstë not his sorrow tell,

But languished, as doth a Fury in hell;

And die he must, he said, as did Echo

For Narcissus, that durst not tell her woe.

In other manner than ye hear me say,

He durstë not to her his woe bewray,

Save that paráventure sometimes at dances,

Where youngë folkë keep their óbservánces,

It may well be he looked on her face

In such a wise, as man that asketh grace,

But nothing wistë she of his intent.

Nath’less it happen’d, ere they thennës3270 went,

Becausë that he was her neighëbour,

And was a man of worship and honoúr,

And she had knowen him of timë yore,3271

They fell in speech, and forth aye more and more

Unto his purpose drew Aurelius;

And when he saw his time, he saidë thus:

“Madam,” quoth he, “by God that this world made,

So that I wist it might your heartë glade,3272

I would, that day that your Arviragus

Went over sea, that I, Aurelius,

Had gone where I should never come again;

For well I wot my service is in vain.

My guerdon3273 is but bursting of mine heart.

Madamë, rue upon my painë’s smart,

For with a word ye may me slay or save.

Here at your feet God would that I were grave.3274

I havë now no leisure more to say:

Have mercy, sweet, or you will do me dey.”3275

She gan to look upon Aurelius;

“Is this your will,” quoth she, “and say ye thus?

Ne’er erst,”3276 quoth she, “I wistë what ye meant:

But now, Aurelius, I know your intent.

By thilkë3277 God that gave me soul and life,

Never shall I be an untruë wife

In word nor work, as far as I have wit;

I will be his to whom that I am knit;

Take this for final answer as of me.”

But after that in play3278 thus saidë she.

“Aurelius,” quoth she, “by high God above,

Yet will I grantë you to be your love

(Since I you see so piteously complain);

Lookë, what day that endëlong3279 Bretágne

Ye remove all the rockës, stone by stone,

That they not lettë3280 ship nor boat to gon,

I say, when ye have made this coast so clean

Of rockës, that there is no stonë seen,

Then will I love you best of any man;

Have here my troth, in all that ever I can;

For well I wot that it shall ne’er betide.

Let such follý out of your heartë glide.

What dainty3281 should a man have in his life

For to go love another mannë’s wife,

That hath her body when that ever him liketh?”

Aurelius full often sorë siketh;3282

“Is there none other grace in you?” quoth he,

“No, by that Lord,” quoth she, “that maked me.”

Woe was Aurelius when that he this heard,

And with a sorrowful heart he thus answér’d.

“Madame,” quoth he, “this were an impossíble.

Then must I die of sudden death horríble.”

And with that word he turned him anon.