‘I have another question. Are you willing to be ruled by me in everything, according to my pleasure? Will you remain true to me, whether I treat you for better or for worse? You must never complain. You must never contradict me with a “no” rather than a “yes”. You must never frown or show any sign of displeasure. If you swear all this, I will swear to marry you.’
Griselda was afraid, and wondered at the meaning of his words. ‘My lord,’ she replied, ‘I am unworthy of the honour you wish to pay to me. But if this is truly your will, then I will gladly accede to it. I swear to you now, in front of my father, that I will never disobey you in word or deed. I swear this on my life, even though life is dear to me.’
‘You have said enough, Griselda. You will be mine.’ He came out of the cottage, looking very grave, and Griselda followed him. As they stood together, the marquis addressed the crowd that had gathered there. ‘Here is my wife,’ he said. ‘Honour her and love her, as you love and honour me. There is no more to say.’
He did not want anything from her old life to be brought into the palace, and so he ordered his ladies to undress her there and then. These ladies were reluctant to touch the scraps and tatters on her back, but they were obliged to obey orders even if they risked getting their hands dirty. Off came the rags. On came the new garments. And there was Griselda, radiant and resplendent in her natural beauty.
They combed hair that had hardly ever seen a comb before. They put a crown upon her head. They pinned on her brooches and precious jewels. What else can I say about her appearance? She had become so ornate and regal that she was scarcely recognizable.
Then the marquis gave her a ring especially bought for the occasion as a token of their union. He set her upon a snow-white palfrey, and with gentle pace they rode to the palace. They were greeted by well-wishers along the route and, after their arrival, they attended a great feast that continued until sunset.
I will not go on and on about her beauty and her virtue. It suffices to say that she had such natural grace that it did not seem possible that she had been brought up in poverty. She could not have come from a cottage or an ox-stall. She must have been educated in an emperor’s palace!
Even the people who had come from the same village, and had seen her growing from year to year, could hardly believe that this was Griselda, the daughter of Janiculus. They could have sworn that this was a completely different person.
She was as virtuous as she had always been, but in her new eminence her virtues shone all the brighter. She was as fair as she was eloquent, as mild as she was bountiful. She became the princess of all the people. Whoever looked upon her, loved her.
So the fame of Griselda spread throughout the region of Saluzzo and was then conveyed further abroad; her virtues became known far and wide, and from all parts of Italy flocked men and women, young and old, to see her.
So Walter, the marquis, had not married one of low degree at all. He seemed to have married a noble woman, and he was so fortunate in his union that he lived at peace with himself and all others. He was highly regarded, too. He had proved that outward poverty may conceal virtue as well as grace. So the people deemed him to be a prudent man, a rare gift in one so favoured by Fortune.
Griselda’s virtue was not confined to household tasks and duties. Far from it. When the occasion demanded it, she was able to nurture the common good and the welfare of the ordinary people. She could resolve any argument, appease any bitterness, and heal any division. She was the agent of peace and unity.
Even when her husband was abroad on business she could conciliate enemies and rivals, whether they were noble or otherwise. Her words were wise and succinct. Her judgements were models of equity. It was said that she had been sent by heaven to save the world and to amend all wrongs.
Then, nine months after her marriage, Griselda bore a child. Everyone had secretly wished for a male child, but in fact she gave birth to a daughter. Still the marquis was happy, and the people rejoiced with him. Even though a daughter had come first there was every reason to believe that in time she would bear a son. She was not barren, after all.
PART THREE
Then it happened. It has happened many times before. Soon after the birth of his daughter, Walter decided to test his wife. He wanted to see how constant, and how steadfast, she really was. He could not resist the thought of tempting Griselda. He wanted to frighten her even though, God knows, there was no need.
He had put her to the test before, and she had never disappointed him. She was always loyal, and always patient. What was the point of tempting her again and again? Some men might say that the marquis was a subtle fellow, but I say that it is evil to submit a wife to scrutiny without reason. It simply causes needless grief and anxiety.
This is what the marquis did. He came one night to her bedside with a serious face and a disturbed manner. They were alone. ‘Griselda, do you remember that day when I lifted you out of poverty and placed you in an exalted rank? You haven’t forgotten that, I hope?
‘I hope you still recall the days when you lived with your father in that little cottage. I hope your present glory has not made you forgetful. You were in so wretched a position that you could scarcely have dreamed of your good fortune. So listen to every word that I am about to tell you. There is no one here but you and me.
‘You know well enough the circumstances that led you here less than a year ago. Although I am of course mild and loving towards you, my noble courtiers are not so respectful. They tell me that it is shameful and humiliating for them to serve one of such humble estate as yourself. They do not wish to stoop so low.
‘Ever since the birth of your daughter they have been complaining more and more. She shares your blood, after all. My fervent will and wish is to live at peace with them. I must listen to what they say, and dispose of your daughter as I think best. It is not what I would, but what I must, do.
‘God knows all this is distasteful to me. But believe me. I will do nothing without your knowledge. You must assent to all of my decisions. Show me your patience and your constancy. Be faithful to your promise to me on our wedding day.’
When she heard her husband she seemed to remain unmoved. She showed no fear, or alarm, or anger. She was calm and composed. ‘Lord,’ she said, ‘you must do as you please. My daughter and I are your faithful servants. We will obey your commands, for better or for worse. We are wholly yours. Do as you wish.
‘There is nothing in the world that will please me if it displeases you. I desire nothing. I dread nothing. I fear only to lose you, my husband. This is the truth rooted in my heart. It will remain there for ever, and will never fade. I will always be faithful to you.’
The marquis was happy with her answer. Yet he pretended otherwise. He looked at her gravely, almost angrily, and left the bedchamber. A short while later he confided in one of his servants, secretly told him what he intended, and dispatched him as a messenger to his wife.
This servant was a secret agent, or enforcer, very useful in matters of state. If there was any low or dishonest work to be done, he was the man. The marquis knew well enough that he loved and respected his master, and would ask no questions. He would obey orders. So without delay he went quietly into Griselda’s chamber.
‘Ma dame,’ he said, ‘you must forgive me for coming here. But I must do what my lord has demanded. You know well enough that his commands cannot be averted or evaded. They may cause grief and suffering, I know, but they cannot be challenged. He is our master. That is all there is to it.’
He took a step towards her. ‘And he has ordered me to take this child.’ He said no more. He seized the infant girl and was about to carry her out of the room, with such an expression on his face – well, it seemed that he would murder her on the spot. Griselda was forced to endure all and to be patient. She was as meek, and as quiet, as a lamb. She witnessed the actions of the servant without remonstrance or complaint.