Complete Fairy Tales Read online

  To empty pleasures, then to woe!

  Meanwhile God’s justice, sure and slow,

  Allows them blindly to proceed;

  Ignoring risk they do not shrink

  Even upon the chasm’s brink.

  God treats me as a child whose need

  Is to be guided and reproved

  Purely by goodness is he moved.

  We ought to love the pains we bear:

  To suffer brings us future joys;

  We hold our Father’s goodness dear;

  So too the hands that he employs.’

  Whatever the tyrannic Prince may ask

  Is done at once. ‘Her virtue is a mask,’

  He thinks; ‘which will no longer fool my eyes:

  I now see through her long-maintained disguise.

  My blows have failed in their effect

  Because among the targets I select

  There’s nothing that she deeply cares about.

  But yet she loves the young princess, no doubt;

  There’s nothing that is closer to her heart.

  In her ordeal, the child must play its part.

  Her daughter is the instrument I need

  In order for my project to succeed.’

  The babe beloved so deeply by her mother

  Had just been at her breast, and lay,

  Held tenderly to let her play,

  Laughing as they gazed at one another.

  ‘You love your daughter, I can see,’ he said,

  ‘But she is young, and it is my desire

  To move her in good time, lest she acquire,

  From you, manners which make her seem ill-bred.

  Her education must be sound;

  And now, by fortune’s favour, I have found

  A lady of distinguished mind

  To teach her what a princess ought to be:

  Of highest virtue, gracious, and refined.

  I therefore hope you will agree

  That she must go. Later today

  Someone will come to take the child away.’

  He left her then, not wishing to remain;

  His heart was not so inhumane,

  His eyes so cruel, as to stay

  And see her parted from their love’s one token,

  The union of child and mother broken.

  The tears ran freely down as the Princess

  Sat with the child, in unrelieved distress

  Until the moment of her fate

  She could do nothing else but wait.

  When to the door the hated minion came

  With cruel orders in his master’s name,

  She only said: ‘I must not disobey,’

  And gazing on the infant where she lay,

  Took her, and with maternal ardour pressed

  Her daughter for a moment to her breast,

  While little arms returned a soft embrace,

  And then, the tears still covering her face,

  Gave up the child. Can pain be more severe?

  For one who loved as tenderly as she,

  To have the heart cut from her would not be

  Worse than to lose the child she held so dear.

  An old religious house, of much renown,

  Stood at some little distance from the town,

  Its virgins governed by austerity,

  Its prioress revered for piety.

  The child, along with jewels of great worth,

  Was secretly brought here. About her birth,

  Nothing was said; the convent, in due course,

  Would be rewarded, so it was implied,

  For all the care the sisters would provide.

  Meanwhile the Prince was stricken by remorse,

  And tried by going hunting to suppress

  Thoughts of his cruelty to the Princess,

  Whom he avoided, as one might avoid

  A tigress when her cub has been destroyed.

  He was astonished, when they met, to find

  Her manner still affectionate and kind;

  She had with him the same caressing ways

  As in more fortunate and joyous days.

  Such promptness to forgive renewed

  The shame he felt for doing wrong,

  But soon his black and hostile mood,

  Despite his guilt, proved once again too strong;

  He went to her, before two days had passed,

  Making her torment worse, but feigning grief,

  And said, their daughter’s life had been too brief;

  The child so dearly loved had breathed her last.

  She staggered at this second mortal blow,

  But saw the pallor of his face, and chose,

  Putting her own despair aside,

  With wifely love to soothe him, and provide

  Some comfort for his simulated woes.

  Such deep devotion on her part,

  Such magnanimity, defied

  The impulse to be harsh; it touched his heart

  And changed him, almost making him confess

  That death, in truth, had spared the young princess.

  But then the better motive failed,

  While spite and stubbornness prevailed,

  And in the end the Prince did not reveal

  A secret it was useful to conceal.

  The sun, while fifteen years passed by,

  Traversed his dozen mansions in the sky

  To bring about the seasons’ change,

  But witnessed nothing that might disarrange

  The wife’s and husband’s constant peace;

  Unless to please himself, by sheer caprice,

  He might provoke in her some discontent,

  Intending only to prevent

  The flames of love from burning low—

  As when the smith, his task not yet complete,

  Seeing his furnace dull and slow,

  Upon the fading coals will throw

  A splash of water to restore their heat.

  And all this while the young Princess

  Was growing up in years; she grew no less

  In sense and virtue; to the graceful air,

  The natural sweetness, from her mother’s side,

  She added all the dignity and pride

  Which were her noble father’s share.

  The best of both her parents was combined

  To make a beauty of the purest kind;

  Wherever she was walking by

  She seemed to bring some radiance from the sky.

  One day a courtier, as it chanced,

  Well born and young, the handsomest of men,

  When visiting, caught sight of her: entranced,

  He lost his heart and loved her there and then.

  Now on the fairer sex Nature bestows

  An instinct that the fairest all possess:

  For when her eyes wreak havoc, each one knows

  What injuries she causes, and can guess

  How deep the unseen damage goes;

  That she was tenderly adored

  Was by the young Princess not long ignored.

  Observing the proprieties, she tried

  To overcome her feelings; not for long:

  She yielded to them soon, for on her side

  The love she felt for him was just as strong.

  Her lover to his courtship brought

  Great qualities: he was of high descent,

  Good-looking, brave. For years, the Prince had thought

  That if the young man ever sought

  To be his son-in-law, he would consent.

  It therefore pleased him when he learned

  About this love that she returned;

  But then a strange idea took hold: the pair,

  Before he would allow them to secure

  The happiness they longed to share,

  Must have great torments to endure.

  ‘I want these two to be content,’ he said;

  ‘But yet, in order for their love to grow

  More firm and
constant, they must undergo

  A harsh ordeal of fear and dread.

  ‘And at the same time I shall test

  Griselda’s patience once again;

  But not because I still maintain

  My wild suspicions: they are laid to rest;

  No longer do I doubt her love; my aim

  Is now to celebrate her worth;

  How good and wise she is I shall proclaim;

  Adorned by gifts so great, the earth,

  In reverence and awe, will raise

  A hymn of gratitude and praise.’

  He chose in public to declare

  That rashly married, and without an heir

  To rule his land and people in due course,

  His infant daughter also having died,

  He had, to save his line, but one resource:

  To find himself a second bride.

  The high-born maid whom now he would espouse

  Had led an innocent and cloistered life,

  And soon, between them, marriage vows

  Would crown his love by making her his wife.

  I leave aside the torment and despair

  Brought by these tidings to the youthful pair;

  The Prince meanwhile informed his faithful spouse,

  With neither tears nor anger in his eyes,

  That they must part, and she must leave his house,

  For fear of worse to follow otherwise.

  She has his people’s sentiments to thank:

  They are indignant at her lowly rank,

  And he must seek a bride of nobler stock.

  ‘But as for you,’ he said, ‘you must return

  Beneath your roof of thatch and fern,

  And take your shepherdess’s smock,

  Laid ready for you in your room.’

  She listened calmly as she heard her doom,

  And did not flinch, nor did she speak;

  She sought to keep her misery unseen;

  Her countenance remained serene

  Even as tears ran down her cheek,

  And through the sorrow on her face

  She kept her beauty and her grace,

  As when the year brings spring again,

  Its sunshine bright despite the rain.

  She answered nearly fainting, with a sigh:

  ‘My husband, lord and master: my reply,

  Though nothing could be worse than what you say,

  Will be to demonstrate to you

  That all I ever wish is to obey.’

  Then peacefully, and saying nothing more,

  Secluded in her room where she withdrew,

  She put away the costly clothes she wore,

  And weeping inwardly took up the smock

  Worn long ago to tend her flock.

  Thus modestly and humbly dressed

  She sought the Prince to make a last request:

  ‘I am unable, Sir, to leave

  Unless, having displeased you, I receive

  Your pardon. Poverty I can endure,

  But not your wrath. In truth, I do repent;

  Grant me forgiveness, and, though poor

  I nonetheless shall live content,

  And never will the years affect

  My love for you, nor my respect.’

  Dressed in her peasant clothes, she spoke

  With such docility of mind,

  In words so noble and refined,

  That all his passion reawoke,

  And almost led him to revoke

  Her banishment; swayed by her charms,

  And hardly able to suppress a tear,

  He went towards her, drawing near

  As if to take her in his arms,

  But then his pride, with all its force,

  Bade him be firm, and not change course;

  It overcame the love within his heart,

  And speaking harshly he replied:

  ‘The past is finished; I am satisfied

  That you repent. Now go; you must depart.’

  She and her father went without delay.

  Like her, he had been given rustic dress,

  And as she saw him weeping with distress

  That such disgrace should strike inside a day,

  She said: ‘From palace splendour we are banned

  Without regret; so let us leave the court

  For shady woods set in a wilder land,

  Where homes are of a humbler sort,

  And life is innocent; there we shall find

  More true repose, and greater peace of mind.’

  By slow and weary ways they reached at last

  Their lonely place of exile; there she took

  Distaff and spindle, sitting by the brook

  To spin where she was courted in the past.

  There for the Prince, a dozen times each day,

  Without complaint, serene, she went to pray

  That he would prosper, given Heaven’s aid,

  His hopes succeed, his glory never fade;

  No wife caressed and kissed could be

  More fervent in her love than she.

  This husband, whom she loves and misses still,

  Has not forgotten his intent

  Of testing her; a messenger is sent

  To tell her that it is his will

  That from her distant dwelling-place

  She must return, and see him face to face.

  As soon as she appeared, he said: ‘Grisel,

  In church tomorrow I shall take as bride

  A young princess. She must be satisfied

  With all I do, and all you do as well.

  It is your utmost care that I require;

  I want you to assist in my desire

  To please the one I love; you know

  How I am to be served, and what is due

  In princely houses: nothing mean or low;

  But everything must clearly show

  A prince can be a lover too.

  These rooms are hers; use all your skill

  To decorate them; see that they are graced

  By all that wealth can buy, and fill

  Each one with elegance and taste.

  Remember always that your rule must be

  To demonstrate how dear she is to me.

  ‘And that you may more willingly assume

  The tasks your duties here demand,

  I show you now the lady whom

  You serve henceforth by my command.’

  Like nascent dawn in eastern skies,

  Lovely to see when night has cleared,

  The Princess brought, as she appeared,

  As fair a sight before their eyes.

  Griselda, when the girl arrived,

  Felt love surge through her; in her head

  The memories of former days revived,

  Of happier times; and to herself she said:

  ‘Alas! my daughter, if she had survived,

  Had Heaven listened to my prayers, might be

  Perhaps as tall, and not less fair than she.’

  Griselda’s wish to show her love and care

  Was so intense, that when the girl had gone,

  She thus addressed the Prince, still unaware

  That instinct was the force that urged her on:

  ‘Permit me, Sir, to make a plea

  In favour of the maiden you will wed,

  For she was tenderly brought up, and bred

  To live in luxury and splendour, free

  From any cruelty; she could not bear

  The trials you imposed on me:

  She would not live through treatment so severe.

  ‘Of lowly birth and poor, I was inured

  To toil and hardship; married, I endured

  All kinds of misery and pain;

  It did not vex me, nor did I complain,

  But she has never suffered grief or woe.

  The slightest harshness that you show

  Will kill her; angry words, a look, no more,

  Would be to her a mort
al blow.

  Alas! Sir, treat her kindly, I implore.’

  The answer she received was stern:

  ‘Attend to matters that are your concern.

  A simple shepherdess should not advise;

  I need no lessons; it is not for you

  To tell me what I should or should not do.’

  Griselda, lowering her eyes,

  Remained in silence and withdrew.

  Then soon appear on every side

  The wedding guests, from far and wide;

  Into the splendid palace hall,

  Directed by the Prince, they came.

  Before he lit the nuptial flame

  He spoke as follows to them all:

  ‘Appearances are not to be believed:

  False hopes excepted, by no other thing

  Are we more readily deceived;

  And those you see before you here will bring

  Convincing proof. For anyone would guess,

  Seeing my bride, so soon to be my wife,

  And by her marriage then a great princess,

  That she has all she might desire from life.

  Yet nothing could be further from the truth.

  ‘Consider next this martial youth:

  Do not appearances suggest

  That such a warrior, pursuing fame,

  Must be content to be our wedding guest,

  Since in our tournaments he has the chance,

  Before us all, to prove himself the best,

  Showing his skill with sword and lance?

  Yet what he wants is not what you expect.

  ‘As for Griselda, surely the effect

  Of all her sufferings must be

  Despair, and rage, and tears? But no:

  She does not weep, from rancour she is free,

  Nor does she let the least impatience show.

  ‘And who would not believe, again,

  That I must be the happiest of men,

  Seeing the beauty of my bride?

  But were the knot of marriage tied

  How pitiable would be my state!

  No prince has known so terrible a fate.’

  The Prince went on: ‘Although what you have heard

  Will baffle you, a word will make it clear;

  And though I speak of sorrows, that one word

  Will also make them disappear.

  Know first, then, that you do not understand

  Why I have brought this beauteous maiden here:

  You think I mean to marry; but in truth

  She is my daughter, and her hand

  I now bestow upon this noble youth,

  Who loves her heart and soul; she feels the same.

  ‘And furthermore I now proclaim

  That I continue to be deeply moved

  To see my wise and faithful wife display

  Such constant patience; she has proved

  Still loyal when unjustly sent away.

  ‘I take her back; her place is now assured;

  And I will seek, with every delight

  That tender love can offer, to requite