The Heptameron

by Marguerite de Navarre

The lady was overjoyed to hear him talking like this, and replied: ‘I promise, Monseigneur, that if as behoves a noble lord of your station you make virtue the object of your love, then I shall use all the strength that God has given me to serve you, and help you achieve your goal.’

  ‘Then may you heed your promise, Madame,’ replied d’Avannes, ‘and know that God, whom no man may know but by faith alone, did deign to take on flesh, even the same flesh as the sinful flesh of man, so that in drawing our flesh to the love of His humanity, he would draw our spirit to the love of His divinity. And by means of things visible did it please Him to make us love through faith the things that are invisible. Thus is that virtue, which my whole life through I desire to love, a thing that is invisible unless it show external effects. It must therefore take on a bodily form, so that it may make itself known unto men. Indeed, it has done so, for it has clothed itself in your body, Madame, the most perfect it could find. Therefore, I acknowledge and confess that you are not merely virtuous, but Virtue itself. And I, who see that Virtue shining through the veil of the most perfect body that ever existed do desire to serve and honour it for the rest of my days, for its sake renouncing all vain and vicious love!’

  The lady was as pleased as she was surprised to hear these words coming from him, but she concealed her feelings, and said: ‘Monseigneur, I shall not attempt to reply to your theology; but as I am inclined rather to fear evil than to believe goodness, I would beseech you to desist from addressing such words to me, for I know how little you respect those women who have believed them. I know well that I am a woman, not only a woman like any other, but a woman [so full of imperfections that] Virtue would be performing a greater act in transforming me into herself than in taking on my form, unless she wished perchance to remain unknown to the world. For, hidden beneath such a garb as mine, Virtue could never be known as she truly is. Yet for all my imperfection, Monseigneur, I do not cease to bear you such love as a woman who fears God and has care for her honour [can] and ought. However, this love shall not be declared until the day when your heart shall be capable of the long-suffering that virtuous love demands. When that time comes, I know what language I must speak, but for the present, Monseigneur, be you assured that you yourself cannot hold any dearer than I your life, your honour and your whole welfare.’

  Trembling, and with tears in his eyes, d’Avannes begged and beseeched her that as pledge of her word she would grant him a kiss. But she refused, saying that for his sake she would not break the custom of her people. As he thus pressed her, the husband arrived, and d’Avannes turned to him, saying, ‘My dear father, I am so beholden to yourself and to your wife, that I would like to ask you to think of me as your son for ever.’

  The good man replied warmly that gladly he would, and d’Avannes went on: ‘As a token of this bond of affection, allow me, I beg you, to kiss you.’ They embraced, and d’Avannes went on again: ‘If I were not afraid of contravening the law, I should request the same of my dear mother, your wife.’

  So the husband ordered his wife to kiss d’Avannes, which she did without showing in any way whether her husband’s order was to her liking or not. But, at the touch of that kiss, [so long desired, so hard sought and so cruelly refused,] the fire that mere words had kindled in the young lord’s heart, began to grow ever hotter.

  After this d’Avannes went back to the château to see the King, his brother, and there he told all sorts of stories about the journey he was supposed to have made to Montserrat. But he learned that his brother was planning to go to Olite and Tafalla, and he became very downcast at the thought, because he would have to go as well and he feared that the journey would be a long one. So downcast was he that he resolved to try to find out whether the wise lady was not perhaps after all more favourably inclined towards him than she had allowed herself to appear. What he did was to take lodgings in a house in town, situated in the same street. It was a tumbledown old place, built of wood, and about midnight he set fire to it. The news soon spread round the town and eventually reached the house of the rich man, who leaned out of the window to ask where the fire was. On learning that it was at Monseigneur d’Avannes’ house, he went straight there, taking all his servants with him. He found the young man standing in the street in his nightshirt and felt so moved by the sight that he took him in his arms, wrapped him in his robe and led him back to his house with all possible haste. When they arrived, he said to his wife, who had remained in bed: ‘I have a prisoner here, my dear! Be his gaoler and treat him just as you would treat me!’

  No sooner was he out of the room than d’Avannes, who would have liked nothing better than to be treated like the husband, leapt nimbly into the bed, hoping that an opportunity like this would make the wise lady change her tune. But not so! As he jumped in at one side, she got out at the other, grabbing her tunic and covering herself up in it.

  ‘Monseigneur,’ she began, as she approached the head of the bed, where d’Avannes had landed, ‘did you imagine that a chaste heart can be changed by opportunity? For you should know that just as gold is tested in the furnace, so a chaste heart proves itself stronger and more virtuous in the midst of temptation, and the more it is beset by its contrary, the cooler it grows. You may be quite sure, therefore, that if my wishes were otherwise than I have told you, I would certainly have found ways and means of satisfying them – ways and means to which, having no desire to use them, I have given no consideration. If you wish me to retain such feelings as I have for you, then I would ask you not only to rid yourself of the desire to make me other than I am, but also to rid yourself of the very idea that by some deed or other you could ever accomplish such a goal.’

  While she was speaking her serving-women came in, and she ordered them to bring a collation of preserves. But d’Avannes did not in the circumstances feel like either eating or drinking, so wretched did he feel at having failed in his attempt. Not only that, but he was fearful lest his demonstration of desire should cost him such intimacy as he had previously enjoyed.

  Having seen that the conflagration was dealt with, the husband came back and prevailed upon d’Avannes to stay the rest of the night. And so he did, but his eyes spent that night in weeping and did not close for sleep. Early the next morning he went to bid his hosts farewell in their bed. As he kissed the lady, he knew that she felt more pity than resentment at what he had done. Thus was one more coal piled upon the fire of his love. After dinner he joined the King, to accompany him to Taffalla, but before he left he went once more to say goodbye to his good father and to his lady, who since she had been so instructed by her husband, no longer raised objections to kissing d’Avannes as her son. However, you may take my word for it, the more virtue prevented the hidden flame from showing itself in her eyes and in the expression on her face, the hotter it grew and the more unbearable it became. In the end, she was unable to endure the war in her heart between love and honour. It was a war that she had, however, resolved never to reveal, and, deprived of the consolation of being able to see and speak to the man who was life itself to her, she fell into a continuous fever due to a melancholic humour. Her extremities became quite cold and internally she burned incessantly. The doctors – not that they have any final say in the matter of human health – began to be concerned about her illness. They suspected an internal obstruction as the cause of her acute melancholy, and they were so worried that they told the husband to warn his wife to take care of her conscience and to realize that she was in the hands of God – as if you are not in the hands of God when you are healthy. The husband loved his wife dearly, and was so upset to hear the doctors’ pronouncements that he wrote to d’Avannes for consolation, begging him to take the trouble to come to see them and expressing the hope that the sight of him would do the patient good. D’Avannes did not lose a moment when he received the letters but came post-haste. On entering the house, he found all the servants going about as if in a state of mourning for their beloved mistress, and he was so shocked that he stood at the door
as if paralysed. His good father came to him, embraced him and, weeping so bitterly that he could not speak, led him to his poor sick wife’s room. She turned her languishing eyes towards the young man, looked at him, held out her hand and with all the strength [left in her enfeebled body,] drew him towards her. She kissed him, embraced him, and gave voice to this woeful lament:

  ‘Oh Monseigneur, the hour has come when all dissimulation must cease, and I must confess the truth that till now I have striven so hard to hide from you. Know then that if you have felt deeply for me, I have felt none the less deeply for you. But the pain I have endured has been greater, for I have had to hide my suffering against all that I wished and all that I desired. For God and my honour forbade me ever to declare it to you lest I should encourage in you that which I sought to diminish. Yet, though so often I said no to you, I confess that it has hurt so much to pronounce the word that it is now the cause of my death. But I am content that it should be so, for it is by God’s grace that I die before the violence of my love should stain my conscience and my name. Lesser fires than mine have ruined greater, stronger buildings. I depart full of joy that before I die I have been able to declare to you my feelings, feelings that are the match of yours, save only that in men and women honour is never the same. And I beseech you, Monseigneur, that you should not henceforth shrink from addressing yourself to the highest and most virtuous ladies in the land, for it is in hearts such as these that the greatest passions dwell, and hearts such as these who conduct their great passions with prudence and sobriety. Your grace, your beauty and your nobility are such that they will never let the toils of love go fruitless. I shall not ask you to pray for me, for I know that the gate of Paradise is not closed to true lovers, and I know that love is a fire that punishes lovers so sorely in this life that they are exempt from the bitter torments of Purgatory in the next. So, adieu, Monseigneur. Take care of your good father, my husband. Tell him the truth, I beg you, so that he will know how truly I have loved God and loved him. Come no more now before my eyes. For henceforth I wish only to think of how I shall receive the promises that were made to me by God before the creation of the world.’

  So saying she embraced him and kissed him with all the strength that remained in her weak arms. D’Avannes, stirred to the depths of his soul by this spectacle, and no less sick at heart than his suffering lady, could not summon the strength to utter a single word. He withdrew from her sight and collapsed in a deep faint on a bed that was in the room.

  Then the lady called her husband to her side. After many a noble exhortation, she commended d’Avannes to him, declaring that next to himself it was d’Avannes whom she had loved most in all the world. So saying, she kissed her husband, and bade him her last farewell. Then, after extreme unction, they brought her the holy sacrament of the altar, and she received them joyously, as one who is sure of her salvation. Her sight began to grow dim and her strength ebbed from her. She started to repeat the In manus tuas in a loud voice. Hearing her cry out, d’Avannes raised himself on his bed. Overwhelmed with pity he watched as with a gentle sigh she rendered her glorious soul unto Him from whom she had come. When he realized that she was dead, he sprang up, and though he had never approached her living body except in fear and trembling, he now threw himself upon her lifeless corpse. Clasping it in his arms, he covered it in kisses, and it was only with the utmost difficulty that they were able to remove it from his grip. The husband, who had never supposed that d’Avannes felt so deeply about his wife, was overwhelmed. ‘This is too much, Monseigneur!’ he said. They left the room together and wept long, [the one for his wife, the other for his lady.] Then d’Avannes told the husband the whole story of his love, and how until her death his wife had given no sign that he could have read as anything other than coldness and reserve. It pleased the husband to hear these words, though they increased too the pain of his loss, and for the rest of his days he devoted himself to the young man’s service. D’Avannes himself, however, who at this time was only eighteen years of age, made his way straight to court. There he remained for many years, refusing to speak to any other woman, refusing even to see any other woman. And for ten whole years he dressed himself in black.

  *

  ‘Well, Ladies, that shows you the difference between a wanton woman and a wise one, two women who demonstrate the different effects of love. In the one it led to a glorious death that we should all admire; in the other it led to disgrace, shame and a life that was all too long. For as much as the death of a saint is precious before God, the death of a sinner is nothing worth.’

  ‘Indeed, Saffredent,’ said Oisille, ‘you have told us a most beautiful story. And anyone who knows the person in question, as I do, will think the more highly of it. I have never seen a finer, more handsome gentleman in all my life than the Seigneur d’Avannes.’

  ‘But just consider,’ said Saffredent. ‘Here we have a wise woman, who, for the sake of showing herself outwardly more virtuous than she was in her heart and for the sake of covering up a passion which the logic of Nature demanded she should conceive for this most noble lord, goes and allows herself to die just because she denies herself the pleasures that she covertly desires!’

  ‘If she really had felt such desires,’ said Parlamente, ‘she had plenty of opportunities to show it. But so great was her virtue, that her desire never went beyond her reason.’

  ‘You can dress it up as you please,’ said Hircan, ‘but I know that when one devil’s been chased out it’s always replaced by a worse one, that where women are concerned it’s pride that ousts desire much more than fear, or love of God, and also that those long skirts they wear are nothing more than a fabric woven from lies and deception, preventing us knowing what’s hidden beneath! For, if their honour were unstained by the fact as ours is, you would find that Nature has no more forgotten anything where women are concerned than she has where we men are concerned. They impose on themselves the constraint of not daring to help themselves to pleasures they desire, and in the place of this vice they put another vice, one which they regard as more honourable: namely, cruel hardness of heart and vainglorious concern for reputation, by means of which they hope to acquire immortal renown. Thus, glorying in their resistance to the law of Nature, as if Nature were vicious, not only do they make themselves no better than cruel and inhuman beasts, but they turn into veritable demons, and take on the arrogance and malice of demons!’

  ‘It’s a great pity that your wife is such a good woman,’ said Nomerfide, ‘seeing that you not only want to discredit virtue but also want to prove it to be a vice!’

  ‘I’m very glad,’ Hircan replied, ‘to have a wife who gives no ground for scandal, and neither would I myself wish to cause scandal. But as far as chastity of the heart is concerned, I believe that she and I are both children of Adam and Eve. So if we look at ourselves properly, we shall have no need to cover our nakedness with fig-leaves, but rather to confess our frailty.’

  ‘I accept,’ said Parlamente, ‘that we are all in need of God’s grace, since we all incline to sin. Yet the fact is that our temptations are not the same as yours, and if we sin through pride, no one suffers for it, and neither our body nor our hands are tainted by it. But all your pleasure is derived from dishonouring women, and your honour depends on killing other men in war. These are two things that are expressly contrary to the law of God.’

  ‘I admit what you say,’ said Geburon, ‘but God has said: “Whosoever looks on a woman to lust after her hath committed adultery with her already in his heart” and “Whosoever hateth his brother is a murderer.” In your opinion, are women any more exempt from this than we are?’

  ‘It is God who is the judge of hearts,’ said Longarine, ‘and He will pass His sentence. But if men are unable to accuse us, that is in itself a good thing. For the goodness of God is so great that He will not judge us without an accuser, and the frailty of our hearts is so well known to Him that He will love us still for not acting openly in accordance with that frailty.�
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  ‘Come now,’ said Saffredent, ‘let’s drop this disputation – it smacks more of sermonizing than story-telling. I pick Ennasuite to tell the next tale, and I hope she’ll take good care to make us laugh.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she replied, I shan’t disappoint you. I did have a very uplifting story for today, but as I was on my way here, somebody told me a very funny one about two men in the service of a certain princess, and I laughed so much that I forgot all about the tragic and melancholy tale I had intended to tell. I’ll leave that one till tomorrow, because I’d never be able to make it sound convincing if I told it with a smile on my face!’

  STORY TWENTY-SEVEN

  In the town of Amboise there lived a certain man who served the princess in question in the capacity of chamberlain. He was an honourable man and enjoyed entertaining anyone who came to visit him, especially his own colleagues. Now, not long ago one of these colleagues, a man who acted as secretary to the princess, came to stay with him, and remained for ten or twelve days. This secretary was so ugly, that to look at him, you’d have thought he was king of the cannibals rather than a Christian! And he did something that showed not merely that he had forgotten what honour was, but that honour had never had the smallest place in his heart, and he did it in spite of the fact that his host had treated him most honourably, indeed, had treated him as a true friend and brother. What he did was to pursue his colleague’s wife, just to satisfy his own dishonourable and illicit desires, regardless of the fact that there was nothing in the slightest desirable about her. In fact she was the very antithesis of sensual desire, and as respectable a woman as any in the town of Amboise. She realized what the evil intentions of the secretary were, and decided to expose his vicious ways by means of subterfuge rather than cover them up by refusing him from the outset. So she pretended to welcome his advances. As for him, he thought he had her where he wanted her. He never left off pestering her and was not in the slightest concerned about her age (she was around fifty), or the fact that she was not exactly beautiful, let alone the fact that she had the reputation of being a respectable woman who loved her husband dearly. One day they found themselves in a room together, while the husband was in some other part of the house. The wife, continuing her pretence, said that the only thing they needed was a safe place to have a little tête-a-tête, just as he wanted. To which he replied that all they had to do was to go up to the attic. So up she got, and told him to go first and wait for her. He trotted off up the stairs, grinning all over his face like a performing monkey. Listening intently for the longed-for footsteps on the stairs, he awaited the object of his desire. His passion burned within him-not with the pure bright flame you get with juniper wood, more like a smouldering coal from a smoky old forge! But instead of the discreet footsteps he hoped for, what he heard was the lady’s voice calling out: ‘Just wait a second, Monsieur le secrétaire, I’ll go and ask my husband if he minds if I come up and join you!’