Time, mighty Time all other things above,
Did bring me perfect knowledge of true Love.
Then Time itself I had, Time enough and more,
And in that Time such cruel pains I bore
That she who had no faith came finally
To see what Love could never make her see.
Time, which made Love to come and rule me so
Within my heart, has taught me Love to know
E’en as it is: so now I have perceived
And seen it other than I once believed.
Time has revealed to me on what a ground
My heart desired its steadfast Love to found.
That ground it was your own true Beauty bright
’Neath which was Cruelty concealed from sight.
Time has shown me Beauty’s worthlessness,
While Cruelty has brought me happiness.
For thus from Beauty’s face I did depart
On whom to gaze I’d striv’n with all my heart.
Seeing no more the Beauty of your brow,
Your cold hard heart I felt more keenly now,
Yet your commands I truly did obey,
Wherefore yet happy and content I stay,
For I see that Time, who caused my Love so strong,
Has shown me pity by his tarrying long,
Has served me well and served me with such grace,
I have no wish to come unto this place,
Except it be to say and say full well,
Not ‘I greet you‘ but a last ‘Farewell’.
Time has shown me Love’s poor naked frame
E’en as it is and shown me whence it came,
And Time it is who makes me now to rue
That Time that once I loved for Love of you,
A Love that blinded all my senses so
That now no feeling save regret I know.
But as deceitful Love I came to see,
Time did the One True Love reveal to me,
Here in this solitary place where I
For seven silent plaintive years do lie.
Love from on high through Time I came to know,
And other Love seemed poorer then to grow.
Through Time I bowed to Love’s supremacy,
And Time from lesser Love defended me.
My soul and flesh in sacrifice I give
To serve not you but true Love while I live.
When you I served, you valued me at naught,
But he this naught, though it offend, hath sought.
For all my service Death alone you give,
But he, though him I shunned, doth bid me live.
Through Time true Love with goodness from above
Hath vanquished and laid low that other Love,
And it hath melted back into the air,
Air once so sweet to me and falsely fair.
To you this Love I now entire restore,
For nor of him nor you have I need more,
Since perfect Love, the which shall never die,
Joins me to him with never-ending tie.
To him I fly, to him myself enslave,
No more to you nor to your god the slave.
I take my leave of Cruelty and pain,
Of torment, hatred, and of proud disdain;
Of burning fires, which fill your lovely breast
E’en as with perfect Beauty you are dressed.
My best adieu to all these miseries,
To all these woes and dire adversities,
To all the flames of love, that very Hell,
Is this one word to say, Madame: Farewell!
Without a hope, whatever is in store,
That e’er again we see each other more.
The Queen was overcome as she read these lines, and wept tears of regret beyond belief. For such a loss, the loss of a servant imbued with such perfect love, must be esteemed a loss so great that no treasure in the realm, no, not even the realm itself, could make her other than the poorest and most desolate lady in the whole world. For she had lost that which no riches on earth could replace. After she had heard mass, she retired to her room and there gave herself up to such sorrow as her cruelty had deserved. There was not a mountain, not a rock, not a forest that the Queen did not have searched for the hermit. But He who had taken him from her hands took care that he did not fall into them again, and transported him to Paradise before she was able to discover his whereabouts on earth.
*
‘This example shows that a gentleman who serves a lady should not confess what can only harm and do no good. Even less, Ladies, should you be so distrustful as to demand such difficult proofs of love that though you obtain the proof, you lose your servant.’
‘Well, Dagoucin,’ said Geburon, ‘I’ve always admired the lady in your story as the most virtuous woman in the world. But now I think she’s the most wicked [and the most cruel] women that ever lived!’
‘All the same, it seems to me that it was not wrong of her,’ said Parlamente, ‘to put him on trial for seven years to find out if he really loved her as much as he claimed. Men are in the habit of lying in such circumstances, as well you know, and one cannot put them on trial for too long before placing such trust in them – if indeed one should ever place one’s trust in them!’
‘Ladies are a good deal more sensible now, though, than they used to be,’ observed Hircan, ‘since they convince themselves of their servant’s devotion after only seven days’ trial, whereas they used to take seven years!’
‘Yet there are women in this very gathering,’ said Longarine, ‘whose devoted servants have loved them through thick and thin for more than seven years and have still failed to win their hearts.’
‘By God, how right you are!’ said Simontaut. ‘But you should put them with the ladies of a bygone age, because they wouldn’t be accepted nowadays.’
‘But the gentleman was indebted to his lady,’ said Oisille, ‘because it was through her that he turned his heart entirely to God.’
‘Lucky for him it was God!’ said Saffredent. ‘Considering his plight, I’m surprised he didn’t sell his soul to the Devil!’
‘So when you’ve been treated badly in the past by your lady,’ said Ennasuite, ‘that’s what you’ve done, is it?’
‘Thousands of times!’ retorted Saffredent. ‘But the Devil would never take me, because he could see that all the torments in Hell could not possibly cause me any more pain than the pain she was making me suffer. He knew perfectly well that the most diabolical torture of all is when you love a woman who won’t love you in return!’
‘If I were you,’ said Parlamente, ‘and felt that way about women, I would not bother to do them service at all.’
‘Ah, but such has always been the force of my feelings,’ replied Saffredent, ‘so swollen my [heart] with emotion, that I have been only too happy to serve, if I have been unable to give the orders. Whatever their malice, they shall never overcome the love I bear them! But tell me, do you, in all conscience, approve of this lady’s extraordinary severity?’
‘Yes, I do,’ said Oisille, ‘because I think she neither wanted to love him nor to be loved by him.’
‘If that was her attitude,’ said Simontaut, ‘then why did she hold out some hope to him for after the seven years?’
‘I agree with you,’ said Longarine, ‘because people who don’t want love don’t create situations which enable their admirers to persist.’
‘Maybe she loved somebody else,’ said Nomerfide, ‘somebody who wasn’t as good as the noble Elisor, and maybe she preferred him even though he was the worse of the two.’
‘If you ask me,’ said Saffredent, ‘she was keeping him on one side so that she could have him when she eventually left the one she was temporarily attached to.’
Although what the Queen of Castile had done was certainly not something to be praised either in her or anybody else, Oisille could see that on the pretext of criticizing her behaviour the men would go so far in
speaking ill of women in general [that] they would no more spare women who were modest and chaste than they would those who were wanton and lewd. She could not bear the men to proceed further, so she said: ‘I can see that the more we pursue this subject, the more those men who complain of being harshly treated will try to speak ill of us. So, Dagoucin, I request you to choose the next storyteller.’
‘I choose Longarine,’ he said, ‘because I’m sure that she’ll tell us something far from melancholy, and that at the same time she’ll tell us nothing but the truth, without concessions either to men or to women.’
‘Since you consider me such a truthful person,’ she began, ‘I’ll make so bold as to tell you about something that happened to a certain prince of high estate, a man whose qualities set him apart from all other men of his time. I’ll tell you, too, how there is one vice that should be avoided above all others – lying and deceit. This is the most ugly and the most squalid of all vices, particularly for princes and high-born lords, for it is fitting that they of all people should have truth on their lips and in their eyes. However, there’s no prince in the world, even if he had all the riches and honours one could ever desire, who isn’t subject to the tyrannous sway of Love. It would seem, indeed, that the more valiant and noble the prince, the more Love strives to subjugate him and hold him in his grip. For this vainglorious god disdains the ordinary things in life that never change. His majesty Love delights in constantly working miracles – strengthening the weak, weakening the strong, making the ignorant wise, depriving the most learned of their wisdom, encouraging the passions and destroying reason. Turning things upside down is what the god of Love enjoys. Now, since princes are not exempt from this, they are not exempt either from [necessity, that necessity which desire and the servitude of love impose.] And by such necessity not only are they permitted, but are actually obliged, to employ fabrications, lies and hypocrisy, which, according to the teaching of Jean de Meung, are the weapons one needs in order to vanquish the enemy. Well, since one finds such behaviour praiseworthy in princes, though it is to be disapproved of in other mortals, I shall tell you about a trick played by a certain young prince, a trick which tricked the very people who usually do the trickery themselves!’
STORY TWENTY-FIVE
In Paris there was once an advocate, the most highly thought of man in his profession. Because of his ability everyone came to him, and he had become the richest amongst his learned colleagues. However, his first wife had not given him any children, and he thought to himself that he might manage to have some after all if he married again. Old in body though he was, he was ever hopeful, and his spirit was by no means dead. So he decided on one of the most attractive girls in town. She was about eighteen or nineteen years of age, with a lovely face, a lovely complexion and even lovelier figure. He loved her and did his best for her, but he no more succeeded in having children by her than he had by his first wife. As time went by she took this rather to heart. But youth does not suffer such setbacks for long, and she soon started to look for amusement outside the home. She went to dances and banquets, but conducted herself so properly the whole time, that her husband could not take offence. In any case, she was always accompanied by other women in whom he had complete confidence.
One day she was at a wedding, and there was a prince there of very high estate. He himself told me this story, but instructed me not to reveal his name. What I can say is that he was the most handsome and most elegant man there ever was in this realm, or ever will be. Well, this Prince saw the young girl. Her eyes and her whole expression simply invited love. So he went to talk to her, and uttered such sweet beguiling words that she did not in the least mind him holding forth. She made no attempt to disguise the fact that her heart had long harboured the love that he was begging her for, and told him that he must not put himself to such pains to persuade her, for love had made her consent at the mere sight of him. This was a prize that the young Prince would have gladly toiled long and hard to win, but when he realized that it was already his, thanks to the natural spontaneity of Love, he thanked the god with all his heart for bestowing such favour upon him. And from that moment on he handled things so well that it was not long before a way was agreed upon whereby they could meet alone and out of sight. The time and place were decided on, and the young Prince duly appeared. In order to safeguard his lady’s honour he disguised himself in someone else’s clothes. But with him he brought some trusted men, because of the violent characters who roamed the town at night and to whom he did not care to have his identity revealed. He left his men at the end of the street where the girl lived, saying,
‘If you don’t hear any noise within a quarter of an hour, go back home, and come to meet me here in three or four hours’ time.’
So they waited, and hearing no noise, went back. Meanwhile the young Prince went straight to the lawyer’s house, where he found the door open as promised. But on his way up the stairs he met the husband, candle in hand. The old man had seen him first. Fortunately the god of Love sharpens his victims’ wits and fortifies their courage to meet the needs which he himself gives rise to. The young Prince marched straight up to the husband and said:
‘Monsieur, you know that I, and my family too, have always had a great deal of confidence in you. I regard you as one of my best and most faithful servants. I’ve come to pay you a private visit, partly because I want to discuss my affairs and partly to ask if you’ll give me something to quench a terrible thirst I have. And I’d be glad if you wouldn’t tell anyone that I’ve been here, because I have to go on to another place where I don’t want anyone to recognize me.’
The poor old advocate was so delighted to have the honour of a private visit from the Prince, that he took him straight up to his room and ordered his wife to prepare and serve the choicest fruit and preserves she had. Only too happy to obey, she presented the fairest collation she could devise. The young Prince pretended he did not even know her and managed not to look at her too obviously, in spite of the fact that her night attire revealed her as even more beautiful than she was accustomed to appear. He spoke the whole time about his business affairs to her husband, for it was he who had long been in charge of them. However, while the good lady of the house was kneeling before the Prince offering him the preserves, and while the husband was at the sideboard pouring him a drink, she whispered to him that he should slip into a dressing-room to his right and that she would join him there presently. When he had finished his drink, he thanked his lawyer friend, and said that he ought to go. The old man insisted on accompanying him back home, but the Prince assured him that where he was going he [had no need] of company! Then he turned to the wife, and said:
‘Well, it would not be fair of me to deprive you of this husband of yours. He’s one of my oldest servants, after all, and you’re very lucky to have him. You should thank God that you have a man like him. So make sure you serve him properly and do what he tells you – it would be too bad of you, if you didn’t!’
And with these noble sentiments, off he went, closing the door behind him, so that the old man would not follow him down the stairs. Then he went straight into the dressing-room, where, once the husband had fallen asleep, his lovely lady came to join him. She led him into a room furnished with the most wonderful paintings and statues. But the finest figures, however clad, were the figures of the pair themselves. And I’ve not the slightest doubt that she kept all the promises she had made him.
At the agreed time, he left her, and went to find his companions who were waiting for him at the appointed spot. He continued to see his lady in this fashion for some time, and eventually decided to use a short cut by way of a nearby monastery. He ingratiated himself with the Prior and had things so organized that every night the porter would open the monastery door for him around midnight and let him out again on his way back. As the lawyer’s house was quite close, he was able to go without taking anyone with him. In spite of carrying on in the way he was, he remained a prince, a prince, who
feared and loved the Lord, and although he never stopped in the church on his way to his assignations, he never failed to stop on his way back and to spend a long time in prayer. The monks, who used to see him there on his knees as they went in and out to matins, came to regard him as the holiest man on the face of the earth.
Now the Prince had a sister who was in the habit of visiting this monastery quite frequently. She loved her brother above all other creatures in the world and liked to ask all the devout people she knew to remember him in their prayers. One day she earnestly asked the Prior if he would pray for the young man.
‘Alas, Madame,’ he replied, ‘[what] is this you ask of me? If there is any man in the world in whose prayers I myself should like to be remembered, it is the Prince, your brother. For if he is not a holy and righteous man, then I cannot hope to be found holy and righteous! Blessed is the man who can do evil and doeth it not, as the Scriptures say!’
The Prince’s sister, eager to discover how the Prior knew her brother was possessed of such piety, questioned him so closely that eventually he told her what he knew, on condition that it was treated as a secret of the confessional.
‘Is it not a remarkable thing that a young and handsome prince like your brother should give up his pleasure, give up his bed, in order to come so often to hear matins with us, and come not as a prince, not so as to win the respect of the world, but like an ordinary monk, all alone in the obscurity of a side chapel? His piety so confounds my brethren and myself that in comparison with him we are not worthy to be called men of religion!’
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