The Heptameron

by Marguerite de Navarre

  ‘But it’s the contrary that’s precisely the intention of all [their] fine speeches,’ said Ennasuite. ‘They start by preaching about honour, and end up with the opposite. And if all the men here would care to tell the truth about this, I’d gladly believe them on their oaths.’

  So Hircan swore on his oath that he had never loved any woman but his wife, and that the last thing he wanted was to be the cause of her committing some grievous offence against the Almighty. Simontaut said the same, adding that he had often wished that all women, save his own wife, were wicked.

  ‘Indeed!’ retorted Geburon. ‘Then you deserve to have a wife every bit as bad as you’d like to see the others! For my part, I can honestly swear to you that there is a certain lady whom I have loved so deeply that I would rather have died than that she should do for me anything that might have lowered her in my esteem. For my love was founded on her virtue, and I would not, for all the favours in the world, have desired to see her virtue stained.’

  At this Saffredent burst out laughing.

  ‘Geburon,’ he said, ‘I’d have thought your common sense and your love for your wife would have saved you from the risk of playing the lover. However, I see it’s not the case, since you’re still employing the terms we generally use to get round the cleverest of women, and to get a hearing with the most modest. After all, what woman can turn a deaf ear when we start talking about honour and virtue? On the other hand, if we were to bare our souls, and show ourselves in our true light, there’s many a man usually well-received by the ladies whom they would no longer deign to consider. So we devise the most angelic appearance we can, to cover up the devil inside, and thus disguised, we receive a good few favours before we’re found out, and perhaps even manage to draw the ladies on so far, that, thinking they’re set on the road to virtue, it’s too late for them to beat a retreat when they find themselves in the midst of vice!’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Geburon, ‘I didn’t think that you were like that! I had thought that you found virtue more pleasing than pleasure.’

  ‘What!’ replied Saffredent. ‘Can there be any greater virtue than loving according to God’s commandment? It seems to me that it’s far better to love one woman as a woman than to idolize several as if they were graven images! As far as I’m concerned, it’s my firm belief that it’s much better to use them than to abuse them!’

  The ladies were all on Geburon’s side, and told Saffredent to keep quiet.

  ‘I’m quite happy to say no more on the subject,’ he told them. ‘In view of the bad reception I’ve had, I’d rather not return to it.’

  ‘If you’ve been badly received,’ said Longarine, ‘you have only your own wickedness to blame for it. What honest woman would want you as her servant after the sort of things you’ve been saying?’

  ‘Those women who have not taken exception to me wouldn’t exchange their honesty for yours,’ he replied. ‘But let’s say no more about it, lest I get angry, and upset myself and others too. Let’s see who Dagoucin will choose to tell the next story.’

  ‘I choose Parlamente,’ said Dagoucin, ‘because I think she is the one who above all others should know what noble and perfect love really is.’

  ‘Since I have been chosen to tell the third story today,’ she began, ‘I shall tell you what happened to a lady who has always been a close friend of mine, and whose innermost thoughts were never hidden from me.’

  STORY THIRTEEN

  In the household of the Regent, the mother of King Francis I, there lived a certain lady, a very devout person married to a nobleman no less devout than herself. Although her husband was old, while she was young and attractive, she nevertheless loved and served him as if he were the handsomest young man in the world. To avoid causing him any distress she took pains to act as a woman of his own age would act, shunning all social gatherings, fine clothes, dances and all the diversions that young women normally enjoy. Her only recreation and delight was to render service to God. In consequence the husband bestowed such affection upon her and placed such trust in her that she was able to manage both him and the house as she pleased. One day he told her that ever since his youth he had had a longing to make a journey to Jerusalem, and asked her what she thought of the idea. She, whose sole wish was to please him, replied:

  ‘My love, since God has deprived us of children but endowed us with riches, I should like us to use a part of our wealth to make this sacred journey. For, wherever you go, I am resolved never to leave you.’

  The good husband was so happy that he could imagine himself already on Mount Calvary.

  Now about the time they had decided on this pilgrimage a gentleman came to court who had seen much active service against the Turks. He was seeking support from the King for a campaign against one of the Turkish towns – a campaign which, it was hoped, would bring great advantage to the whole of Christendom. The old man asked him all about his expedition, and having heard what was being planned, asked him if, after his journey, he would care to make another to Jerusalem, which he and his wife were very anxious to visit. The captain, very gratified to hear of this devout desire to see the holy city, promised to take him there himself, and to keep the venture secret. The old man could hardly wait to tell his dear wife about the arrangements he had made. She, for her part, was scarcely less impatient for the day of their departure than her husband, and she talked about it continuously to the captain, who listened, but paid less attention to what the lady was saying than to the lady herself. In fact, he fell so violently in love with her, that while he was telling her about his adventures at sea, he would get completely confused, mixing up the port of Marseilles with the Archipelago, and talking about horses when he meant ships, like somebody who had quite lost his wits. But he found her so virtuous that he dared not make his feelings known, and his efforts to conceal them kindled such a fire in his heart that he began to suffer from frequent bouts of sickness. The lady took good care of him on these occasions, for he was, as it were, the cross that guided her on the road to Jerusalem. She would send so often for news of his progress, that in the knowledge that she was caring for him, he generally recovered without further treatment. But this was a man who had the reputation of being more a hearty comrade than a devout Christian, and there were not a few people who were somewhat surprised to see that the lady was giving him so much attention. When they saw that he appeared to be a completely changed man, that he was making a habit of going to church, listening to sermons and making his confession, they strongly suspected that he did it merely to win the lady’s favour, and they could hardly resist pointing it out to her. The captain then became nervous lest she should hear something against him which would result in his being separated from her. So he told her and her husband that he was about to be dispatched by the King, and that he had many things to say to them before he left. But in order to keep the affair more secret, he preferred, he said, not to speak with them in front of other people, and therefore requested them to send for him privately when they had both retired for the night. The gentleman thought this was an excellent idea, and every evening without fail he went early to bed, and had his wife join him and take off her day-clothes. Then, when the household had retired, the couple would send for the captain, and would talk about their journey to Jerusalem. During these conversations the good old man would often fall devoutly asleep. Then the captain, sitting alone with the lady he esteemed the noblest and most beautiful in all the world, would often become lost for words, so torn was his heart between the desire to speak his love and the fear of doing so. In order that she would not notice his consternation, he would start to speak of the holy places of Jerusalem, of the places that bore the signs of that great love which Jesus Christ has borne us. And by talking about that love, he concealed his own as he sighed and gazed with tears in his eyes at his lady. She noticed nothing but his devout countenance, and took him for so holy a man that she asked him to tell her about his past life, and how he had come to such a fervent love of God. He r
ecounted to her how he had been a poor nobleman, how he had neglected his conscience in order to acquire wealth and position, and how he had married a lady within the prohibited degrees because she was rich, although she was old and ugly and he had had no love for her. Once he had had all her money, he had gone to sea to seek his fortune, and by dint of hard work had eventually achieved an honourable position. But, he went on, from the moment he had met her, she, the wife of the old gentleman, had been the cause of a complete change in his life through her holy words and virtuous example. If he returned safely from his campaign he was now firmly resolved, he declared, to take her and her husband to Jerusalem. He hoped thereby to make amends for his grievous sins, which he believed he had now put behind him. His one outstanding obligation was to his wife, with whom he hoped to be reconciled in the near future. These words pleased the lady greatly, who was above all gratified to have drawn a man such as this to the love and fear of God. These long discussions continued night after night until it was time for the captain to leave the court, never once having dared to declare his true feelings. He made her a gift of a [crucifix and a pietà], beseeching her to remember him whenever she beheld them.

  The day of the captain’s departure came. He bade farewell to the old husband, who as usual was half asleep, and then turned to the lady. He could see tears in her eyes, drawn forth by the virtuous affection that she had come to feel for him. The sight made his love unbearable, so unbearable, that, still not daring to declare his passion, he almost fell in a faint as he said his adieu. He broke out all over in a sweat – it was as if not only his eyes but his whole body were shedding tears. Thus, without uttering a word, he departed, and the lady, who had never in her life seen sorrow shown in such a fashion, was left amazed and overcome. However, her good opinion of the captain did not change, and she sent her prayers and supplications with him. A month later, as she was on her way home, she met a gentleman, who gave her a letter from the captain, saying that she was requested to read it in private. The man told her how he had seen the captain embark, firm in his resolve that his expedition should be pleasurable to the King and advantageous to the cause of Christendom, and how he himself was returning to Marseilles to sort out the captain’s affairs. Once home, the lady went discreetly to a window-recess where she could be alone, and opened the letter. It consisted of two sheets of paper on both sides of which were closely written the words that follow:

  My silent tongue has hid my love away

  So long in sorrow from the light of day,

  That if some final solace I would seek,

  My only way is death, or else to speak.

  Fair Speech, whom I forbade to show his face

  To you, fair Speech, has waited in this place,

  And waited long, to find me all alone

  And far from her who is my help, my own.

  Now in sore need he bids me set him free,

  To show himself, or else to stifle me.

  Yea, he is truly present even here,

  In this letter doth his very self appear,

  And says that since I may not look at all

  On her who holds my very life in thrall,

  On her from whom I nothing else would seek.

  Could I but see her face and hear her speak.

  He must into her gracious presence steal

  And there at once before your eyes reveal

  How in the depths of grievous woe I cry,

  So long concealed I fear I soon must die.

  Fain would I wipe him from this sorry screed,

  Lest you refuse his plaintive voice to heed,

  This voice of foolish, craven Speech, who now

  Does safe in absence boldly show his brow,

  Where in your presence once he hung his head,

  And sighs, ‘T’were surely better I were dead

  Than seek through words my sorry life to ease,

  If I should then my lady sore displease

  For whose dear sake I would most gladly die!’

  Yet might my death bring sadness to the eye

  Of her for whom alone I do desire

  To save my health and save life’s vital fire.

  O Lady fair, how solemnly I swore

  That when my journey happily was o’er

  I would return to you with greatest speed,

  Your husband and yourself straightway to lead

  Unto the slopes of Sion’s longed-for hill,

  That you may kneel and pray and do God’s will.

  Yet if I die, there’s none will take you there.

  Too much my death would grieve my lady fair

  To see the enterprise to nothing turned

  For which her noble heart devoutly burned.

  So will I live, will to my word be true,

  And ere long time will I return to you.

  It seems to me that death is good, I own,

  And if I Live, it is for you alone.

  Therefore I needs must lighten my poor heart,

  And now relieve him of that heavy part

  Which pains us both all other pains above

  By showing you my true and honest love,

  Which is so great, which is so good and strong,

  That no one ever loved so well so long.

  What will you say, bold Speech, audacious friend?

  Say, shall I let you go, and make an end?

  Say, could you bring her heart to know at length

  My love? Ah no! For yours is not the strength

  E’en to convey of it one thousandth part!

  Will you not tell her that my trembling heart

  Was with such power captured by her eye

  My body’s but a husk all dead and dry,

  If from her own I draw nor life nor light?

  Alas, poor Speech, your weary strength is slight,

  You cannot paint for her, with all your art,

  How her pure eye can take a steadfast heart,

  Nor can you praise the words that she can speak,

  Your power is only faltering and weak.

  If you could only venture to express

  How all her virtue, grace and gentleness,

  Rob me of words and even of my wit

  So that from hour to hour I weeping sit,

  As eyes that gazed on her shed forth their woe,

  And words flow not as once they used to flow,

  Yea, when I longed to tell her of my love,

  I spoke of signs and times, the skies above,

  And of the Arctic or Antarctic star!

  O Speech, my friend, as skilful as you are,

  You have no skill to tell my misery,

  To tell how love brought me such agony,

  To tell her all my sorrows and my pain,

  You have no strength for that, and you remain

  Too feeble to express my passion true.

  This is a thing you have no power to do.

  But if you cannot tell what’s in my heart,

  At least go to her now and make a start.

  Say this: ‘Although my will has served me well,

  My fear lest I displease forbade me tell

  This love so great, this love that should be told,

  To you, to God, to all the Heav’ns unrolled.

  For its foundation is your virtue fair,

  Which makes my cruel torture sweet to bear.

  Should not to all this treasure rich and rare

  Be shown? To all one’s very heart laid bare?

  For who could blame a lover in this sort

  For having dared admire, desire and court

  A Lady in whom all virtue and all grace,

  And honour too, do have their rightful place?

  No! rather should you blame the man so wrought

  That he could see all this, and love her nought.

  But I have seen, and love her with such fire

  That love with ease has won my heart entire.

  Alas, this love is nothing feigned or slight,


  Nor based on painted beauty’s gaudy light.

  This love so great which binds me is, far less,

  A passion born of lust or wickedness.

  It is not built upon the hope that’s vain,

  A bare enjoyment of your love to gain.

  In this desire of mine there is no kind

  Of which to bring displeasure to your mind.

  I’d rather die in this strange land afar

  Than know you less in virtue than you are,

  Than know through me the honour any less

  Which gives your soul, and body, goodly dress,

  You, who in all the world most perfect art,

  Have all my love: therefore my loving heart

  Doth only wish Perfection to defend,

  Of my affection only cause and end.

  For you are good all other things above,

  So do I think, and burn with perfect love.

  I am not one who in the easy charms

  Of Love finds solace, or some mistress’arms.

  My Love is of a chaste and moderate mind,

  Bestowed upon a Lady of such kind

  That neither God nor Angel, seeing you,

  Could do ought else but praise you as I do.

  And if you cannot give your love to me,

  I am content at least that I should be

  Your servant true, and my devotion show,

  For this you will believe of me, I know,

  And length of time at last will prove to you,

  That loving you I pay my homage due.

  If I have nothing from my Lady fair,

  Still am I glad to love, and glad to swear

  That truly I ask nothing in return,

  Save that you let my heart and body burn

  Just for your sake, no matter what the price

  Upon Love’s altar as a sacrifice.

  Believe me, if alive I come to you,

  Your servant you will find me, pure and true,