HERE BEGINS THE TALE OF THE WIFE OF BATH: In the old days of King Arthur, of whom the Britons speak with such respect, all this land was filled with the supernatural. The fairy queen with her jolly band danced often in many a green meadow. At least, I have read that this was the old belief; the time of which I speak was many hundred years ago. But now one can no longer see the elves, for all kinds of holy friars, as thick as dust in a sunbeam, with their great charity and prayers seek out every land and river, blessing halls, chambers, kitchens, bedrooms, cities, towns, castles, high towers, villages, dairies, barns, stables—this is why there are no fairies. For where an elf once walked there now walks a friar, mornings and afternoons, saying his prayers as he begs through his district. Nowadays women can safely travel past every bush and tree; there is no other evil spirit abroad but the friar, and he can only do us physical dishonor.
It happened that King Arthur had in his court a lusty squire who one day rode along the river where he saw a girl walking ahead of him, alone as she was born, and, despite her resistance, he ravished her. This misdeed caused such an outcry and such protest was made to King Arthur that the knight was condemned to death by a court of law. He would have lost his head—perhaps this was the law then—had not the Queen and other ladies begged so hard for mercy that the King granted him his life and gave him to the Queen to decide as she wished whether he would live or die.
The Queen heartily thanked the King, and then one day when she found the opportunity she spoke to the knight: “Your situation is still such that your life is not safe. I will grant you your life if you can tell me what it is that women desire most. Take care, now, and save your neck from the ax! And if you cannot give the answer now, I will give you leave to travel for a year and a day to seek and learn a satisfactory answer to my question. But before you go, I must have your pledge that you will return.”
The knight was sad and sighed deeply, but what could he do? He was not able to do as he liked. At last he decided to go away and to return at the end of a year with whatever answer God might provide. He took his leave and went on his way.
He sought out every house and place in which he hoped he might have the luck to learn what it is that women love most. But he could in no way manage to find two creatures who were in agreement on this subject. Some said women loved riches best; some said honor; some said gaiety; some said finery; some said love-making and to be frequently widows and wives. Some said that our hearts are most comforted when we are flattered and pleased. I won’t deny that those folk are very near the truth. A man can best win us by flattery; we are all caught by constant attentions and consideration. Some others said that we love our freedom best, and to do just as we please, so that no man will scold us for our faults, but rather say that we are wise and in no way foolish. Actually, there is no one of us that will not kick if anybody scratches us on a sore spot. Let a man try it, and he’ll find that true; for no matter how evil we are inside, we wish to be thought wise and pure. Some said that we take great delight in being considered stable and discreet, steadfast in purpose, not giving away secrets told to us. But that answer is not worth a rake-handle. By God, we women can keep no secret; witness Midas—do you want to hear the story?
Ovid, among other details, mentions that Midas had two ass’s ears growing on his head under his long hair, and that he was able to hide this defect cunningly from the sight of everyone except his wife; no one else knew of it. He loved her deeply and also trusted her, and he begged her to tell no one of his disfigurement. She swore that she would not tell for all the world; she would not be so low or wicked as to bring a bad name upon her own husband, nor, by telling, to bring shame upon herself. Nevertheless, she thought that she would die from keeping a secret so long. The desire to tell pained her heart so sorely that she thought the words would burst from her. Since she dared tell no one, she ran down to a nearby marsh—her heart seemed on fire until she got there—and, like a heron sputtering in the mud, she put her mouth to the water and said, “Don’t betray me, water, with your sound; I’ll tell you and no other: my husband has two long ass’s ears! Now it is out, and my heart is whole. Truly, I could keep the secret no longer.” You see by this that, though we women can keep a secret for a while, it must come out; we can hide nothing. If you want to know the rest of that story, read Ovid and learn it from him.
When this knight, who is the subject of my tale, saw that he could not learn what women love most, his spirit was sad within him. But home he went; he could not linger, for the day had arrived when he had to return. On his way he happened to ride, greatly troubled, by the side of a forest, where he saw more than twenty-four ladies dancing. He went eagerly toward the dancers, in the hope of learning something useful. But before he reached them the dancers vanished; he could not tell where. He saw nobody except a woman sitting on the grass—an uglier creature no one can imagine. This old woman rose to meet the knight and said: “Sir Knight, there is no path this way. Tell me truly what you seek. Perhaps I can help you; old folks know many things.”
“Dear mother,” he said, “I am really as good as dead, unless I can say what it is that women most desire. If you can inform me, I shall pay you well.”
“Take my hand and swear,” she said, “that you will do the next thing I ask of you if it is in your power, and before nightfall I will tell you the answer.”
“You have my word,” said the knight. “I consent.”
“Then I can truly say that your life is saved,” she said, “for I will stake my life that the Queen will agree with my answer. Let’s see the proudest wearer of kerchief or headdress dare to disagree with what I shall teach you. Come, let us go, without more talk.” Then she whispered a message into his ear and bade him be happy and not worry.
When they arrived at the court, the knight said that he had kept to the day that he had promised, and that he was ready with the answer. Many high-born wives and maidens, and many wise widows had assembled there, and the Queen herself sat as judge to hear his answer. Then the knight was told to appear. Silence was ordered, and the knight was instructed to tell the audience what thing mortal women love best. The knight did not stand like a dumb beast, but at once answered the question in a manly voice so that all the court heard: “My liege lady,” he said, “in general, women wish to have complete control over both their husbands and love-affairs, and to be masters of their men. That is your greatest desire, though you kill me for saying so. Do what you will with me; I’m at your disposal.”
In all the court there was not one wife or maid or widow who denied what he had said; all agreed that he deserved to live.
At that decision the old woman whom the knight had seen sitting on the grass jumped up and cried, “Mercy, my sovereign lady Queen! Before you go, do me justice. I taught this answer to the knight, and in return he swore to me that he would do the first thing I asked him if it lay in his power. Before this court, then, Sir Knight, I ask you to take me as your bride, for you know well that I’ve saved your life. If I lie, say no, upon your honor.”
The knight answered, “Alas, woe is me! I know very well that that was my promise. For the love of God, ask something else! Take all my money, and let my body go.”
“No,” she replied, “in that case I’d curse us both. Not for all the metal and ore that lies on this earth or is buried under it would I give up being your beloved wife, though I’m old and ugly and poor.”
“My beloved?” he exclaimed, “rather my damnation! Alas, that anyone of my birth should be so foully shamed!” But all was in vain; the conclusion was that he was forced to marry her and to take his old wife to bed with him.
Now some people will perhaps say that I did not take the trouble to tell you about all the gaiety and finery which was to be seen at the wedding feast that day. I will answer them briefly: there was no joy nor any feast at all; there was nothing but sadness and much sorrow. The knight married her secretly in the morning and then hid himself like an owl all day, so troubled was he by the ugliness of his wife.
The knight’s thoughts were very miserable when he took his wife to bed; he tossed and turned back and forth. His old wife lay there with a steady smile, and said: “Bless me, dear husband; does every knight treat his wife as you do? Is this the law of King Arthur’s court? Is every one of his knights so standoffish? I’m your own love and also your bride, the one who saved your life, and truly I’ve done you no wrong. Why do you treat me so on the first night? You act like a man who has lost his mind. What have I done? For the love of God, tell me and I will amend it if I can.”
“Amend it!” replied the knight. “Alas, no, no! It will never be amended. You are so ugly, so old, and of such low birth, it’s little wonder that I toss and turn. I wish to God my heart would burst!”
“Is this the cause of your discontent?” she asked.
“Yes, of course,” he answered, “and no wonder.”
“Now, sir,” she said, “I could change all this, if I wanted to, within three days, if you conducted yourself properly toward me. But you say that nobility of character is inherent in riches; that you wealthy folk are therefore gentlemen. Such arrogance is not worth a hen. See who is most quietly and unostentatiously virtuous and most diligent in doing whatever kind deeds he can; take him as the greatest gentleman. Christ wishes us to claim our nobility of character from Him and not from our forefathers because of their wealth. Though they left us all their possessions and we claim therefore to be of a noble family, they cannot bequeath to any of us any part of the virtuous way of life which made them gentlemen, and which served as an example for us to follow.
“Dante, the wise poet of Florence, could speak well about this subject. His story runs something like this: ‘Man rarely rises by his own little efforts, for God in His goodness wishes us to derive our nobility of character from Him.’ We can receive only temporal things from our ancestors, things which hurt and harm man.
“Everyone knows as well as I that if nobility of character were the natural, exclusive inheritance of a particular family, the members of that family could never cease to be truly noble, because it would be impossible for them to do evil and to have faults.
“Take a torch and carry it into the darkest house between here and the Caucasus; shut the door and go away. The torch will still blaze and burn as brightly as if twenty thousand men watched it. It will carry out its natural function, I’ll stake my life, until it burns out. You can clearly see from this that nobility is not connected with wealth, for people do not always act from natural causes as the torch does. God knows, one finds often enough a lord’s son doing wicked and shameful deeds. The man who wishes to be considered gentlemanly because he is born of virtuous ancestors, and yet will not act virtuously as did his ancestors, is not a gentleman, even though he is a duke or an earl. For wicked deeds make a scoundrel. Nobility of character is not just the reputation of your ancestors, resulting from their noble deeds, for that is no part of you. Your nobility of character comes from God alone; from Him comes all our true distinction; it was not left to us along with our position.
“Look how noble Tullus Hostilius was, who rose, as Valerius relates, from poverty to high rank. Read Seneca and also Boethius; there you’ll find it plainly stated that there is no doubt that the man is noble who does noble deeds. Therefore, dear husband, I conclude as follows: though my ancestors were lowly, God can, as I hope He will, grant me the grace to live virtuously. When I begin to live in that fashion and to give up sin, then I am a gentlewoman.
“You also scorned my poverty, but God in whom we trust chose to live His whole life in poverty. And surely every man, maid, or wife knows that Jesus, the King of Heaven, would not choose an evil way of living. Contented poverty is an honest thing, certainly; Seneca and other writers say that. I consider the man who is satisfied with his poverty rich, even though he does not own so much as a shirt. The covetous man is poor, for he desires more than he can have. But he who has nothing and covets nothing is rich, although you look down on him. True poverty sings happily. Juvenal speaks gaily of poverty: ‘The poor man as he goes along the road can sing and play in front of thieves.’ Poverty is a harsh virtue, but I believe it makes for industry. It also adds wisdom, if it is borne patiently. These things are true of poverty, even though it seems a wretched state no one should wish to be in. When a man is depressed by poverty he often comes to know his God and also himself. It seems to me that poverty is an eyeglass through which one may see his true friends. Therefore, since I do not trouble you, don’t complain any more about my poverty.
“Now, sir, you reproached me for my age. Surely, even if there were no authority for it in any book, you honorable gentlefolk agree that one must be courteous to an old man and call him father, in order to be considered well-mannered. I think, also, that I could find support for that statement among the writers. Since you find me old and ugly, don’t be afraid that I’ll make you a cuckold, for ugliness and age, I’ll warrant, are fine guardians of chastity. Nevertheless, since I know your pleasure, I’ll satisfy your physical desire.
“Choose one of these two things,” she said, “to have me ugly and old until I die, but a true and humble wife who will never displease you as long as I live; or to have me young and lovely and take your chances on the traffic there will be in and out of your house, or quite possibly elsewhere, on account of me. Take your choice; whichever you want.”
The knight thought hard and sighed deeply. At last he replied, “My lady, my love, my dear wife, I put myself under your wise control. You yourself choose whichever you think will be more agreeable and honorable for both of us. I don’t care which; whatever you like suits me.”
“Then am I now your master,” she asked, “since I can decide and do as I wish?”
“Certainly, wife,” he said, “I think that will be best.”
“Kiss me,” she commanded, “we are no longer at odds, for, by my troth, I will be both things to you; that is to say, both lovely and faithful. I pray God that I may die insane unless I am as loyal as ever any wife since the world began. And if by tomorrow morning I am not as beautiful as any lady, empress, or queen between the east and the west, you may kill me or not as you wish. Lift up the curtain and see for yourself.”
When the knight saw that she was truly beautiful and young, he joyfully clasped her in his arms, his heart filled with happiness. He kissed her a thousand times over, and she obeyed him in everything which might give him happiness or pleasure.
Thus they lived all their lives in perfect joy. May Jesus Christ send us husbands meek, young, and lusty abed, and the luck to outlast them. And I also pray Jesus to hasten the death of those who will not be ruled by their wives. And may God soon send a severe pestilence to old and stingy husbands! HERE ENDS THE WIFE OF BATH’S TALE.