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

He took his leave, and she astonish’d stood;

In all her face was not one drop of blood:

She never ween’d t’ have come in such a trap.

“Alas!” quoth she, “that ever this should hap!

For ween’d I ne’er, by possibility,

That such a monster or marváil might be;

It is against the process of natúre.”

And home she went a sorrowful creatúre;

For very fear unnethës3356 may she go.

She weeped, wailed, all a day or two,

And swooned, that it ruthë was to see:

But why it was, to no wight toldë she,

For out of town was gone Arviragus.

But to herself she spake, and saidë thus,

With facë pale, and full sorrowful cheer,

In her complaint, as ye shall after hear.

“Alas!” quoth she, “on thee, Fortúne, I plain,3357

That unware hast me wrapped in thy chain,

From which to scapë, wot I no succoúr,

Save only death, or ellës dishonoúr;

One of these two behoveth me to choose.

But natheless, yet had I lever3358 lose

My life, than of my body havë shame,

Or know myselfë false, or lose my name;

And with my death I may be quit y-wis.3359

Hath there not many a noble wife, ere this,

And many a maiden, slain herself, alas!

Rather than with her body do trespass?

Yes, certes; lo, these stories bear witnéss.3360

When thirty tyrants full of cursedness3361

Had slain Phidon in Athens at the feast,

They cómmanded his daughters to arrest,

And bringë them before them, in despite,

All naked, to fulfil their foul delight;

And in their father’s blood they made them dance

Upon the pavement⁠—God give them mischance.

For which these woeful maidens, full of dread,

Rather than they would lose their maidenhead,

They privily be start3362 into a well,

And drowned themselves, as the bookës tell.

They of Messenë let inquire and seek

Of Lacedaemon fifty maidens eke,

On which they wouldë do their lechery:

But there was none of all that company

That was not slain, and with a glad intent

Chose rather for to die, than to assent

To be oppressed3363 of her maidenhead.

Why should I then to dien be in dread?

Lo, eke the tyrant Aristoclides,

That lov’d a maiden hight Stimphalides,

When that her father slain was on a night,

Unto Diana’s temple went she right,

And hent3364 the image in her handës two,

From which imáge she wouldë never go;

No wight her handës might off it arace,3365

Till she was slain right in the selfë3366 place.

Now since that maidens haddë such despite

To be defouled with man’s foul delight,

Well ought a wife rather herself to slé,3367

Than be defouled, as it thinketh me.

What shall I say of Hasdrubalë’s wife,

That at Carthage bereft herself of life?

For, when she saw the Romans win the town,

She took her children all, and skipt adown

Into the fire, and rather chose to die,

Than any Roman did her villainý.

Hath not Lucretia slain herself, alas!

At Romë, when that she oppressed3368 was

Of Tarquin? for her thought it was a shame

To livë, when she haddë lost her name.

The seven maidens of Milesie also

Have slain themselves for very dread and woe,

Rather than folk of Gaul them should oppress.

More than a thousand stories, as I guess,

Could I now tell as touching this mattére.

When Abradate was slain, his wife so dear3369

Herselfë slew, and let her blood to glide

In Abradatë’s woundës, deep and wide,

And said, ‘My body at the leastë way

There shall no wight defoul, if that I may.’

Why should I more examples hereof sayn?

Since that so many have themselvës slain,

Well rather than they would defouled be,

I will conclude that it is bet3370 for me

To slay myself, than be defouled thus.

I will be true unto Arviragus,

Or ellës slay myself in some mannére,

As did Demotionë’s daughter dear,

Because she wouldë not defouled be.

O Sedasus, it is full great pitý

To readë how thy daughters died, alas!

That slew themselves for suchë manner cas.3371

As great a pity was it, or well more,

The Theban maiden, that for Nicanór

Herselfë slew, right for such manner woe.

Another Theban maiden did right so;

For one of Macedon had her oppress’d,

She with her death her maidenhead redress’d.3372

What shall I say of Niceratus’ wife,

That for such case bereft herself her life?

How true was eke to Alcibiades

His love, that for to dien rather chese,3373

Than for to suffer his body unburied be?

Lo, what a wife was Alcesté?” quoth she.

“What saith Homér of good Penelope?

All Greecë knoweth of her chastity.

Pardie, of Laodamía is written thus,

That when at Troy was slain Protesilaus,3374

No longer would she live after his day.

The same of noble Porcia tell I may;

Withoutë Brutus couldë she not live,

To whom she did all whole her heartë give.3375

The perfect wifehood of Artemisie3376

Honoúred is throughout all Barbarie.

O Teuta3377 queen, thy wifely chastitý

To allë wivës may a mirror be.”3378

Thus plained Dorigen a day or tway,

Purposing ever that she wouldë dey;3379

But natheless upon the thirdë night

Home came Arviragus, the worthy knight,

And asked her why that she wept so sore.

And she gan weepen ever longer more.

“Alas,” quoth she, “that ever I was born!

Thus have I said,” quoth she; “thus have I sworn.”

And told him all, as ye have heard before:

It needeth not rehearse it you no more.

This husband with glad cheer,3380 in friendly wise,

Answér’d and said, as I shall you devise.3381

“Is there aught ellës, Dorigen, but this?”

“Nay, nay,” quoth she, “God help me so, as wis3382

This is too much, an’3383 it were Goddë’s will.”

“Yea, wife,” quoth he, “let sleepë what is still,

It may be well par’venture yet to-day.

Ye shall your trothë holdë, by my fay.

For, God so wisly3384 have mercý on me,

I had well lever sticked for to be,3385

For very lovë which I to you have,

But if ye should your trothë keep and save.

Truth is the highest thing that man may keep.”

But with that word he burst anon to weep,

And said; “I you forbid, on pain of death,

That never, while you lasteth life or breath,

To no wight tell ye this misáventúre;

As I may best, I will my woe endure,

Nor make no countenance of heaviness,

That folk of you may deemë harm, or guess.”

And forth he call’d a squiër and a maid.

“Go forth anon with Dorigen,” he said,

“And bringë her to such a place anon.”

They take their leave, and on their way they gon:

But they not wistë why she thither went;

He would to no wight tellë his intent.

This squiër, which that hight Aurelius,

On Dorigen that was so amorous,

Of áventúrë happen’d her to meet

Amid the town, right in the quickest3386 street,

As she was bound3387 to go the way forthright

Toward the garden, there as she had hight.3388

And he was to the garden-ward also;

For well he spiëd when she wouldë go

Out of her house, to any manner place;

But thus they met, of áventúre or grace,

And he saluted her with glad intent,

And asked of her whitherward she went.

And she answered, half as she were mad,

“Unto the garden, as my husband bade,

My trothë for to hold, alas! alas!”

Aurelius gan to wonder on this case,

And in his heart had great compassión

Of her, and of her lamentatión,

And of Arviragus, the worthy knight,

That bade her hold all that she haddë hight;

So loth him was his wife should break her truth

And in his heart he caught of it great ruth,3389

Considering the best on every side,

That from his lust yet were him lever3390 abide,

Than do so high a churlish wretchedness3391

Against franchise,3392 and allë gentleness;

For which in fewë words he saidë thus;

“Madame, say to your lord Arviragus,

That since I see the greatë gentleness

Of him, and eke I see well your distress,

That him were lever3393 have shame (and that were ruth3394)

Than ye to me should breakë thus your truth,

I had well lever aye to suffer woe,

Than to depart3395 the love betwixt you two.

I you release, Madame, into your hond,

Quit ev’ry surëment3396 and ev’ry bond,

That ye have made to me as herebeforn,

Since thilkë timë that ye werë born.

Have here my truth, I shall you ne’er repreve3397

Of no behest;3398 and here I take my leave,

As of the truest and the bestë wife

That ever yet I knew in all my life.

But every wife beware of her behest;

On Dorigen remember at the least.

Thus can a squiër do a gentle deed,

As well as can a knight, withoutë drede.”3399

She thanked him upon her kneës bare,

And home unto her husband is she fare,3400

And told him all, as ye have heardë said;

And, trustë me, he was so well apaid,3401

That it were impossíble me to write.

Why should I longer of this case indite?

Arviragus and Dorigen his wife

In sov’reign blissë leddë forth their life;

Ne’er after was there anger them between;

He cherish’d her as though she were a queen,

And she was to him true for evermore;

Of these two folk ye get of me no more.

Aurelius, that his cost had all forlorn,3402

Cursed the time that ever he was born.

“Alas!” quoth he, “alas that I behight3403

Of pured3404 gold a thousand pound of weight

To this philosopher! how shall I do?

I see no more, but that I am fordo.3405

Mine heritagë must I needës sell,

And be a beggar; here I will not dwell,

And shamen all my kindred in this place,

But3406 I of him may gettë better grace.

But natheless I will of him assay

At certain dayës year by year to pay,

And thank him of his greatë courtesy.

My trothë will I keep, I will not lie.”

With heartë sore he went unto his coffer,

And broughtë gold unto this philosópher,

The value of five hundred pound, I guess,

And him beseeched, of his gentleness,

To grant him dayës of3407 the remenant;

And said; “Master, I dare well make avaunt,

I failed never of my truth as yet.

For sickerly my debtë shall be quit

Towardës you how so that e’er I fare

To go a-begging in my kirtle bare:

But would ye vouchësafe, upon suretý,

Two year, or three, for to respitë me,

Then were I well, for ellës must I sell

Mine heritage; there is no more to tell.”

This philosópher soberly3408 answér’d,

And saidë thus, when he these wordës heard;

“Have I not holden covenant to thee?”

“Yes, certes, well and truëly,” quoth he.

“Hast thou not had thy lady as thee liked?”

“No, no,” quoth he, and sorrowfully siked.3409

“What was the causë? tell me if thou can.”

Aurelius his tale anon began,

And told him all as ye have heard before,

It needeth not to you rehearse it more.

He said, “Arviragus of gentleness

Had lever3410 die in sorrow and distress,

Than that his wife were of her trothë false.”

The sorrow of Dorigen he told him als’,3411

How loth her was to be a wicked wife,

And that she lever had lost that day her life;

And that her troth she swore through innocénce;

She ne’er erst3412 had heard speak of apparence;3413

That made me have of her so great pitý,

And right as freely as he sent her to me,

As freely sent I her to him again:

This is all and some, there is no more to sayn.

The philosópher answer’d; “Levë3414 brother,

Evereach of you did gently to the other;

Thou art a squiër, and he is a knight,

But God forbiddë, for his blissful might,

But if a clerk could do a gentle deed

As well as any of you, it is no drede.3415

Sir, I releasë thee thy thousand pound,

As thou right now were crept out of the ground,

Nor ever ere now haddest knowen me.

For, Sir, I will not take a penny of thee

For all my craft, nor naught for my travail;3416

Thou hast y-payed well for my vitáille;

It is enough; and farewell, have good day.”

And took his horse, and forth he went his way.

Lordings, this question would I askë now,

Which was the mostë free,3417 as thinketh you?

Now tellë me, ere that ye farther wend.

I can3418 no more, my tale is at an end.