“But, my love, I do not require duty from you; this sort of blind submission would be mortifying, instead of gratifying to me, from a wife.”
“I do not know what a wife can do to satisfy a husband, if submitting in every thing be not sufficient.”
“I say it would be too much for me, my dearest love!”
“I can do nothing but submit,” repeated the perverse Griselda, with a most provoking immoveable aspect of humility.
“Why will you not understand me, my dear?” cried her husband.
“It is not my fault if I cannot understand you, my dear: I do not pretend to have your understanding,” said the fair politician, affecting weakness to gain her point; like those artful candidates for papal dominion, who used to affect decrepitude and imbecility, till they secured at once absolute power and infallibility.
“I know my abilities are quite inferior to yours, my dear,” said Griselda; “but I thought it was sufficient for a woman to know how to obey; I can do no more.”
Fretted beyond his patience, her husband walked up and down the room greatly agitated, whilst she sat content and secure in tranquil obstinacy.
“You are enough to provoke the patience of Job, my dear,” cried her husband; “you’ll break my heart.”
“I am sorry for it, my dear; but if you will only tell me what I can do more to please you, I will do it.”