The Heptameron

by Marguerite de Navarre

  ‘If that were the case,’ said Hircan, ‘there’d be more self-declared fools around than ever!’

  ‘Do you call it folly if one loves with an honourable love in one’s youth, and then converts this love entirely unto God?’ asked Oisille.

  ‘If melancholy and despair deserve praise,’ he replied laughing, ‘then Paulina and her devoted servant certainly deserve praise!’

  ‘Yet God has many ways of drawing us to Him,’ said Geburon, ‘ways whose beginnings may seem bad, but whose end is good.’

  ‘Furthermore,’ said Parlamente, ‘I hold the view that no man will ever perfectly love God, unless he has perfectly loved some creature in this world.’

  ‘What do you mean by perfectly loved?’ said Saffredent. ‘Is a perfect lover for you one of those paralytic individuals who adore their ladies from afar and never dare to bring their desires out into the open?’

  ‘Those whom I call perfect lovers,’ replied Parlamente, ‘are those who seek in what they love some perfection, whether it be beauty, goodness or grace, those whose constant goal is virtue and whose hearts are so lofty and so pure that they would die rather than make their goal that which is low and condemned by honour and conscience. For the soul, which was created solely that it might return to its Sovereign Good, ceaselessly desires to achieve this end while it is still within the body. But the senses, by means of which the soul is able to have intelligence of its Sovereign Good, are dim and carnal because of the sins of our forefather Adam and consequently can reveal to the soul only those things which are visible and have some nearer approximation to perfection. The soul runs after these things, vainly thinking that in some external beauty, in some visible grace and in the moral virtues it will find the sovereign beauty, the sovereign grace and the sovereign virtue. But once the soul has searched out these things and tried and tested them, once it has failed to find in them Him whom it loves, it passes beyond. In the same way children, when they are small, like dolls and all manner of little things that are attractive to the eye and think that the pebbles they collect will make them rich; but then, as they grow up, the dolls they love are living people and the things they collect are the necessities of human life. [Then,] when they learn through experience that in earthly and [transitory] things there is neither perfection nor felicity, they desire to seek the source and maker of these things. Yet, if God does not open the eyes of faith, they will be in danger of leaving ignorance behind only to become infidel philosophers. For only faith can reveal and make the soul receive that Good which carnal and animal man cannot understand.’

  ‘Do you not see,’ said Longarine, ‘that uncultivated ground is desirable, although it bears nothing but useless trees and grasses, because it offers the hope that one day, when it is sown, it will bring forth good fruit? In the same way, if the heart of man feels no love for visible things, it will never attain the love of God when His word is sown therein. For the earth of his heart is sterile, cold and damned.’

  ‘So that’s why most of your doctors of theology aren’t spiritual doctors!’ said Saffredent. ‘It’s because all they’ll ever like is good wine and ugly, sluttish chambermaids. They never try out what it’s like to love ladies who are more refined!’

  ‘If I could speak Latin properly,’ said Simontaut, ‘I’d quote St John to you. He says “he who loves not his brother whom he has seen, how can he love God whom he cannot see?” For it is through things visible that one is drawn to the love of things invisible.’

  ‘But who is the man who is so perfect?’ asked Ennasuite. ‘Quis est ille, et laudabimus eum?’

  To this Dagoucin replied: ‘There are men,’ he said, ‘who love so deeply and so perfectly that they would rather die than feel any desire that was contrary to the honour and conscience of their ladies, and yet they would not wish their ladies or anyone else to be aware of their feelings.’

  ‘Men like that,’ said Saffredent, ‘are chameleons – they live on nothing but air! The fact is that there’s no such thing as a man who doesn’t want to declare his love and know it’s returned. What is more, if it isn’t returned, I don’t think there was ever a love fever that wasn’t cured instantaneously. I’ve seen miracles enough to prove it!’

  ‘Then, will you take my place,’ said Ennasuite, ‘and tell us about somebody who was raised from death to life when he found that his lady’s feelings were not favourable to his desires?’

  ‘I am so much afraid of offending the ladies,’ he replied, ‘whose most devoted servant I have been and always shall be, that without their express command, I should not have dared to tell a story about their imperfections. However, since I now have that command, I must obey, and I shall not hide the truth.’

  STORY TWENTY

  There once lived in the Dauphiné a gentleman named the Seigneur de Riant. He belonged to the household of King Francis I, and was as handsome and honourable a man as you could possibly wish to see. For a long time he had devoted himself to the service of a certain lady, a widow. So much did he love and revere her that, for fear of losing her good graces altogether, he did not dare demand from her that which above all things he desired. Feeling that he was a fine figure of a man and not unworthy of a lady’s love, he firmly believed her whenever she solemnly swore, as she often did, that she loved him more than any other man in all the world. If ever she were obliged to do anything for a gentleman, she would declare, she would do it for him alone, for he was the most perfect gentleman she had ever known. Then she would beg and beseech that he would content himself with this, and not go beyond the bounds of respectable friendship. If she ever found him dissatisfied with what was reasonable and good, if she ever found him laying claim to other favours, then, she assured him, he would lose her for ever. Well, not only was the poor man satisfied with his lot, he deemed himself fortunate indeed to have won the heart of a lady who seemed so full of honour and virtue!

  It would take me a long time to give you the whole account of his love for this lady, to tell you of all the time he spent with her, and how he made many a long journey to see her. To cut a long story short, suffice it to say that this wretched martyr to the sweet fire of love constantly went in search of ways of making his martyrdom worse – for the more you burn in such a fire, the more you want to burn. One day he was suddenly taken by a desire to see the one whom he loved more dearly than life itself, this fair one whom he adored above all other women in the world. So he went with all possible speed by post-horse to her house. On asking where she was, he was told that she had only just come in from vespers, and that she had gone into the game park to finish off her devotions. So he got down from his horse, and went straight to the park, where he found her women attendants, who said that she had gone for a walk on her own down a broad tree-lined path that ran through the grounds. This made him all the more hopeful that he was going to be in luck. So off he went to seek out his fair lady, treading ever so carefully so as not to make the slightest noise, and hoping above hope that he was going to find her alone. Then he came to a leafy bower, in the most delightful spot you ever did see, and, unable to contain himself any longer, he went bursting straight in. What does he find but his beloved stretched out on the grass in the arms of one of her stable-boys! A stable-boy as dirty, common and ugly as de Riant was handsome, gallant and refined! I shan’t attempt to describe his feelings – enough to say that his indignation was sufficient to extinguish instantaneously the fire of a passion that had endured time and circumstance.

  ‘Do as you please, Madame, and much good may it do you!’ he cried, as impassioned with rage as he had been with love. ‘This day I am cured by your wickedness and delivered from the perpetual suffering which was occasioned by what once I took to be your noble virtue!’

  Without waiting to say goodbye, he turned, and went somewhat more quickly than he had come. The poor woman did not know what to reply. As she could not hide her shame, she covered up her eyes, so as not to see the man who in spite of her long dissimulation, could now see her a
ll too clearly!

  *

  ‘And so, Ladies, if you don’t intend to love perfectly, kindly do not try to deceive men of honour, or try to cross them for the sake of your pride and glory. Hypocrites get their just deserts, and God is good to those who love openly!’

  ‘Well, indeed!’ exclaimed Oisille. ‘You certainly did keep a fine story to finish off the day! If it were not for the fact that we have all sworn to tell the truth, I could not believe that a woman of such station could be so corrupt – corrupt in her soul, corrupt in the sight of God and corrupt in her body. To leave an upright gentleman for a vulgar stable-boy!’

  ‘Ah! Madame, if you only knew,’ said Hircan, ‘what a great difference there is between a gentleman who spends his whole life in armour on active service and a well-fed servant who never budges from home, you’d excuse the poor widow in this story!’

  ‘You may say what you like, Hircan,’ replied Oisille, ‘but I do not think you would be capable of accepting excuses from her!’

  ‘I’ve heard it said,’ began Simontaut, ‘that there are some women who like to have their “evangelists” to preach abroad their virtue and chastity! They treat them in the most encouraging and intimate way possible and assure them that if only they were not held back by honour and conscience they would grant them their heart’s desire. Then when the poor fools get together with their friends, they start talking about their ladies, and swear that to uphold their beloved’s virtue they’d stick their fingers in the fire and not feel a thing, because they believe they’ve personally tried and tested their love to the farthest extreme! That’s the way women manage to get honourable men to spread their good name. But they show themselves in their true colours to those of their own kind. They pick men who would never be so bold as to talk about what they knew, and who, if they did happen to talk, wouldn’t be believed in any case, because they’re so base and common.’

  ‘That,’ said Longarine, ‘is a point of view I’ve heard expressed before by men who are particularly jealous and suspicious. But it’s all sheer fantasy. Just because something like that happens to some miserable wretch of a woman, there’s no reason to go round suspecting all women of the same thing.’

  ‘The more we pursue this subject,’ said Parlamente, ‘the more these fine gentlemen here will embroider on what Simontaut has already said, at the expense of us ladies. We had better go to vespers, so that we don’t keep the monks waiting as long as we did yesterday.’

  They were all in agreement, and, as they got up to go, Oisille said: [‘May each and every one of us give thanks to God that we have today told the truth in the stories we have told. As for you, Saffredent, you ought to pray for forgiveness for having told one so insulting to women.’]

  ‘Upon my oath, Ladies,’ replied Saffredent, ‘although my story is a [curious] one, I heard it [from reliable people, and it is true.] If I were to tell you one about women that I know from first-hand experience, I’d have you making more signs of the cross than they do to consecrate churches!’

  To this Geburon replied: ‘You’re a long way from repentance when your confession only makes your sin the worse!’

  And Parlamente said: ‘If that’s your opinion of women, then they ought to deprive you of their refined conversation and cease to have anything to do with you.’

  But Saffredent retorted: ‘There are some women who have followed your recommendation and have banished me from all that is decent, good and refined, and have been so thorough about it that if I could say anything worse, or do anything worse to [each and every one of them, and to one in particular who does me considerable wrong,] then I wouldn’t hesitate to do so and take my revenge!’

  On hearing these words Parlamente raised her mask to her face, and went into the church. They found that although the bell had been ringing heartily for vespers, not a single monk had yet appeared. The fact was that they had heard that the ladies and gentlemen were meeting together in the meadow to recount all manner of amusing tales and, preferring their pleasures to their prayers, they had been hiding in a ditch behind a thick hedge, flat on their bellies, so that they could overhear. So attentively had they been listening, they had not even heard their own monastery bell ringing. The consequence was that they came scurrying to their places in such a hurry that they hardly had enough breath left to start singing the service! When vespers were over and they were asked why they had been so late and their chanting so out of tune, they confessed, and admitted that it was because they had been listening to the stories. When it was realized that they were so favourably disposed towards the proceedings, they were given permission to go along every day and listen from behind the hedge for as long as they wished. At supper everyone enjoyed themselves. The conversations that had remained unfinished in the meadow were continued and went on the whole evening, until Oisille urged them all to retire for the night. If they had a good long rest, their minds would be all the fresher the next day, for, as she said, an hour before midnight is worth three after. And so, taking their leave of one another, they went each to their respective rooms, and brought the second day to its close.

  END OF THE SECOND DAY

  THIRD DAY

  PROLOGUE

  In the morning everybody rose early and went into the hall, but early as it was, they found Oisille already there, having spent more than half an hour studying the lesson that she was to read to them. And on this the third day they were no less delighted by her reading than they had been on the first and second days. Indeed, if it had not been for one of the monks coming to call them to mass, they would never have gone at all, for they were so deep in contemplation that they had not heard the bell. Once mass had been devoutly heard, they had their meal, eating in moderation so that their memories would not be clouded and so that they would be able to perform to the best of their ability when their turn came. Then they all retired to their rooms to consult their notes until it was time to go out to the meadow.

  At the appointed time they eagerly sallied forth. Those amongst them who had made up their minds to tell a funny story had such merriment written on their faces that the rest were already looking forward to a hearty laugh. Once they had arrived, they sat down and asked Saffredent whom he would choose to speak first for their third day of stories.

  ‘It seems to me,’ he replied, ‘that since the fault I committed yesterday is as grave as you say it is, and since I don’t know a story that could make up for it, I ought to call upon Parlamente, who, being a woman with plenty of good sense, will be able to praise ladies in such a way as to make everyone forget the truth I have told you.’

  ‘I’m not undertaking to make up for your faults,’ said Parlamente, ‘but I do intend to take care not to commit similar ones myself. So, appealing to that very truth which we have all pledged to speak, it is my intention to demonstrate to you that there are women who in their love have had in view nothing other than honour and virtue. And because the lady I want to tell you about is from a good family, I shall change the heroine’s name, but nothing more. I hope, Ladies, that you will believe that love does not have the power to change a heart that is chaste, virtuous and honourable. For such indeed is the case, as you will now see from my story.’

  STORY TWENTY-ONE

  There was once a Queen of France who had living in her household several of the daughters of important noble families. Amongst them she had one called Rolandine, who was a close relative. However, since she bore some grudge against Rolandine’s father, the Queen did not treat her at all kindly. The young lady herself, although neither particularly beautiful nor particularly ugly, was so virtuous and chaste that several men of rank asked for her hand in marriage – only to receive a cold reply. The reason was that Rolandine’s father was so fond of his money that he neglected the interests of his daughter. Also, her mistress, as I’ve already said, was so ill-disposed towards her that no one who wanted to win the Queen’s favour would ever ask for Rolandine’s hand in marriage. Consequently, through her father’s negl
igence and her mistress’s dislike the poor girl remained unmarried. As time went by this state of affairs came to distress her greatly, not because she actually wished to marry, but more because she was ashamed. And so she turned herself entirely to God, abandoning the elegant and worldly ways of the court. Her sole occupation was to pray to God and do a little sewing. Thus she spent her youth, withdrawn from the world and leading the most virtuous and saintly life imaginable.

  When she was approaching thirty years of age, there appeared a certain gentleman, the bastard son of a good and noble family. He was as gallant and worthy as any man of his day, but bereft of means, and so ill-endowed with good looks that no lady, whoever she might have been, would have chosen him for her pleasure. This poor gentleman had also never found his match, and as two unhappy people often will, the one sought out the other. He introduced himself to Rolandine, knowing that in their temperaments, in their misfortunes and in their station in life, they had much in common. They poured out their sorrows to one another and soon formed a deep attachment. Companions as they were in misfortune, they would seek one another out wherever they might for their mutual consolation. Thus it was that, as a result of seeing so much of one another, a deep and lasting affection came into being. Everyone who had known Rolandine as a quiet and withdrawn young woman who spoke to no one, was scandalized when they saw her constantly in the company of [the bastard,] and told her gouvernante that she ought not to tolerate the long conversations which the pair were in the habit of having together. So the gouvernante spoke to Rolandine about it, telling her that everybody was scandalized at the way she spent so much time talking with a man who was neither rich enough to marry her nor handsome enough to be her lover. Rolandine, who had always been reproached for her austerity rather than for worldliness, replied to her gouvernante thus: