The Heptameron

by Marguerite de Navarre

  Just imagine! The secretary was an ugly man when he was laughing – think what he must have looked like when he was snivelling! Well, up he jumped and ran downstairs, tears in his eyes, begging and beseeching her that for the love of God she would not say anything to upset the good relations he had with his colleague.

  ‘I’m quite sure,’ she replied, ‘that you are too good a friend of his to want to say anything to me which you wouldn’t want repeated to him! So I’ll just go and have a word with him.’

  And that is just what she did, notwithstanding the man’s attempts to dissuade her. All he could do was take to his heels, as mortified by this humiliation as the husband was satisfied by his wife’s virtuous little trick. Indeed, so satisfied was the husband with his wife’s great virtue that he overlooked his colleague’s vicious streak. After all, he had been punished enough by having the disgrace he had tried to visit on his colleague’s family rebound on to his own head.

  *

  ‘In the light of this story it seems to me that decent people ought to learn not to detain in their houses those whose consciences, hearts and minds are ignorant of God, of honour and of true love.’

  ‘Although your tale was a short one,’ said Oisille, ‘it was as amusing as any I’ve heard, and what is more, it was to the honour of an honest woman.’

  ‘Good Lord!’ exclaimed Simontaut. ‘There’s not much honour involved when an honest woman merely turns down a man as ugly as you say this secretary was. If he’d been handsome and honourable, then there’d have been some evidence of virtue. Actually, I think I know who the man was, and if it were my turn, I’d tell you another tale every bit as funny as the one we’ve just heard.’

  ‘That’s no problem,’ said Ennasuite. ‘I appoint you as the next storyteller.’

  So Simontaut began: ‘People who are used to residing at court or in the big towns have such a good opinion of [their own] cleverness that they think everyone else is nothing compared with them. It does not however [follow] that there are not always plenty of clever, cunning people in all countries and all walks of life. But because those who think they’re the world’s cleverest are so puffed up, one gets much more fun from laughing at them when they make some mistake, as I hope now to demonstrate in a story about something that took place quite recently.’

  STORY TWENTY-EIGHT

  It was while King Francis I, accompanied by his sister, the Queen of Navarre, was staying in Paris. The Queen had brought one of her secretaries with her, a man called Jean. He was not the sort of man to let a good opportunity slip through his fingers. There was not a single president or councillor with whom he was not acquainted, and not a single merchant or man of means with whom he did not have an understanding and whose house he did not frequent: Now it so happened that at about the same time there was also in Paris a certain merchant from Bayonne by the name of Bernard du Ha. This man approached the lieutenant-criminel, partly because he was a native of the same region, and partly because he wanted his professional help and advice on a piece of business. But it so happened that the Queen’s secretary, devoted servant that he was to his master and mistress, was also in the habit of visiting the lieutenant.

  One fine day, when everyone was enjoying a public holiday, the secretary went round to the lieutenant’s house, and on arriving there found neither the lieutenant nor his wife at home. Instead, there was Bernard du Ha playing a hurdy-gurdy or something of the sort, and teaching the lieutenant’s chambermaids how to dance a Gascon branle! When the secretary saw this he tried to make him believe that he was committing a terrible crime, and warned him that if the lady of the house and her husband found out, they would be extremely displeased. He painted so lurid a picture of what might happen that the man begged him to keep quiet about it. Seeing his chance, the secretary then said, ‘What will you give me not to breathe a word about it?’ Bernard du Ha, however, was not so scared as he pretended. He knew full well that the secretary was trying to trick him, but he promised in return to present him with the best [Basque] ham pie he had ever tasted in his life. The secretary was very pleased with this offer and asked him to bring the pie the following Sunday after dinner. This Bernard du Ha promised to do.

  Counting on this promise, the secretary then went off to see a certain lady whom he passionately desired to marry, and said to her: ‘Mademoiselle, I will come to supper with you on Sunday, if I may, but there’s no need to worry about preparing anything. All we need is some good bread and wine – because I’ve just tricked some stupid fellow from Bayonne into providing the rest of the meal at his own expense! In fact, thanks to this little trick I’ve played on him, I shall serve you the best [Basque] ham that has ever been eaten in the whole of Paris!’

  Taking him at his word, the lady invited two or three of her most respectable friends from the neighbourhood and promised to treat them to an entirely new dish that they had never tasted before.

  Sunday came and the secretary went in search of his merchant friend. Eventually he found him on the Pont au Change.

  ‘The devil take you!’ said he, greeting him in his most ungracious manner. ‘The trouble I’ve had trying to find you!’

  To which Bernard du Ha replied that there were people who had had an even worse time and not been rewarded with such gastronomic delights for their pains. As he spoke he produced the pie from beneath his cloak. It was big enough to feed an army! The secretary was overjoyed. He pursed up his ugly great mouth so small in anticipation that he looked as if he would never be able to open it again to taste the object of his delight. Then, greedily grabbing hold of it, he [left the merchant standing where he was,] without even bothering to invite him, and dashed off to join his lady, who could hardly wait to see whether the dishes of Guienne were as good as those of Paris. When supper-time came, and they were all sitting eating their soup, the secretary said: ‘Let’s not bother with this tasteless stuff. Let’s sharpen our palates on something a little more tasty!’

  So saying, he opened up the enormous pie, and tried to [cut into] the ham. It was so hard that the knife made not the slightest impression! After several desperate attempts, it dawned on him that he had been fooled. It was not a ham at all, but a wooden clog, the kind they wear in Gascony! A bit of charred wood had been stuck in one end, and the whole thing had been sprinkled with [soot], flakes of iron, and spices to give it a pleasant smell. Well, if anyone was ever crestfallen, it was our secretary. Not only had he been made a fool of by the very person he had tried to fool himself, but he had also made his lady look foolish – the very person to whom he wanted to tell the truth and to whom indeed he had thought he was telling the truth! And on top of all that he had to content himself with a bowl of soup for his supper. The guests, who were also somewhat vexed, would have accused him of being behind the trick, had it not been perfectly plain from the expression on his face that he was even more put out than they were! When he had finished this now rather slender supper, the secretary went off in high dudgeon. As Bernard du Ha had not kept his promise, he was not going to keep his either. So he went straight to the lieutenant’s house, fully intending to tell him the worst possible things he could about the aforementioned Bernard. However, Bernard had beaten him to it. He had already told the lieutenant the whole story, and the lieutenant was ready to deliver his judgement on the secretary. All he had to say to him was that he had now been taught a lesson for playing tricks on Gascons! So there was no consolation there for the poor secretary. All he got out of it was his own humiliation!

  *

  ‘That sort of thing often happens to people who think they’re too clever and forget themselves in their cleverness. So you see, there’s nothing like doing by others as you would be done by!’

  ‘I assure you,’ said Geburon, ‘that I’ve often seen things like that happen – people you’d have thought village idiots making fools of people who think they’re clever. For there’s nothing more foolish than a man who thinks he’s clever, and nothing more wise than the man who knows th
at he is nothing.’

  ‘And the man knows something,’ said Parlamente, ‘who knows that he does not.’

  ‘Well, I’m afraid we wouldn’t have enough time to do justice to what you have to say,’ said Simontaut, ‘so I call upon Nomerfide to tell the next story. I’m sure she’s not one to hold us up with a lot of rhetoric!’

  ‘All right, I shall tell you just the kind of story you desire,’ she replied. ‘It’s not surprising to me, Ladies, that love should inspire princes [and people brought up in noble circumstances] with the means to escape from danger. After all, such people are brought up surrounded by learned people, and I’d be more surprised if there was anything they were ignorant of. No, the resourcefulness that comes from being in love shows all the more clearly when the person is lacking in native wit. To demonstrate this, I shall tell you a tale about a trick perpetrated by a priest – a priest whose only teacher was love, for the man was so ignorant in all other matters that he was scarcely capable of reading his masses!’

  STORY TWENTY-NINE

  In a village called Carrelles in the county of Maine, there once lived a rich farmer, who late in life had married a beautiful young woman. He had had no children by her, but she consoled herself for this disappointment by having several lovers. When she ran out of men of gentle birth and other worthy individuals, she turned to her last resource – the Church. As her accomplice in sin she chose the very man who could absolve her from it – the local parish priest, who paid many a visit to this member of his flock. The dull old husband never suspected a thing, but he was a sturdy man with rough ways and the wife preferred to play her little game with as much secrecy as possible. She was afraid her husband would kill her if he found her out. One day, when he was out of the house and she did not expect him back for some time, she sent for her priest to come and confess her. And they were having a good time together, when the husband unexpectedly comes back home. There was no time for the priest to get away, and he looked round desperately for somewhere to hide. On the wife’s suggestion he climbed up into a loft and covered the trap-door with a winnowing basket. Meanwhile the husband had come in, and his wife, afraid lest he should suspect anything, was doing her best to be nice to him over his dinner. She gave him plenty to drink, and he consumed so much that what with this and being worn out after working in the fields he began to feel sleepy as he sat in his chair by the fire. Meanwhile, the priest was getting bored up in the loft. When he heard everything had gone quiet in the room below, he leaned out over the trap-door, craning his neck as far as he could until he saw the old man fast asleep. But as he peered, he accidentally leaned on the winnowing basket. Down they fell, both priest and basket in a heap right by the sleeping man! The good fellow woke with a start at the noise, but the priest was on his feet before the husband had even seen him.

  ‘Ah, here’s your winnowing basket, neighbour,’ he said, ‘and many thanks for lending it me!’

  And without more ado, off he went. The poor farmer was astonished and said to his wife:

  ‘What’s all that about?’

  ‘It’s the winnowing basket which the curé borrowed, my dear,’ she replied. ‘And he has just called to return it.’

  ‘Very rough way of returning something you’ve borrowed,’ he growled. ‘I thought the house was falling down.’

  And so it was that the curé escaped scotfree at the expense of the good old farmer, whose only complaint was the abrupt manner in which his winnowing basket had been returned!

  *

  ‘So, Ladies, the master he served saved him on that occasion, but only so that he could possess and torment him the longer in the future.’

  ‘You should not think that simple folk of low station in life are any more exempt from evil intent than the rest of us,’ said Geburon. ‘On the contrary, they’re a good deal worse. Just look at the thieves, murderers, sorcerers, counterfeiters and people of that kind. Their criminal minds never have a moment’s rest. And they’re all poor people and artisans.’

  ‘I don’t find it strange that such people should exhibit more evil intent than others,’ observed Parlamente, ‘but I do find it strange that love should trouble them when they have their energies taken up by so many other things. It’s extraordinary that so noble a passion can find its way into such vulgar hearts!’

  ‘Madame,’ said Saffredent, ‘you know that Maître Jean de Meung said in the Roman de la Rose that

  Whether frieze or lawn you wear,

  Love’s fancies free do linger there!

  Besides, the love in your story isn’t exactly of the kind that brings trials and tribulations. True, poor folk don’t have the wealth or the same marks of distinction that we do, but they do have freer access to the commodities of Nature. Their food may not be quite so delicate, but they have better appetites, and they get more nourishment on coarse bread than we do on our delicate diets. They don’t have fine beds and linen like we do, but they have better sleep and deeper rest than we. They don’t have fine ladies with their make-up and elegant clothes like the ones we idolize, but they have their pleasure more often than we do, and they don’t need to worry about wagging tongues, except perhaps for the birds and animals who happen to see them. [In short], everything that we have, they lack, and everything we lack, they have in abundance.’

  ‘Come along, let’s leave the peasant and his lass,’ said Nomerfide, ‘and finish the day before vespers. Hircan will tell the final tale.’

  ‘Well, I’ve been saving one for you. It’s the strangest and most piteous story you’ve ever heard. And although I’m reluctant [to speak ill of any lady], knowing as I do that men are malicious enough to draw conclusions from the misdeeds of one woman in order to cast blame on all the rest, yet the story is so extraordinary that I suppress my reluctance. In any case, it may be that bringing the ignorance of one woman into the open may make the others wiser. So I shall not be afraid to tell you my story.’

  STORY THIRTY

  During the reign of King Louis XII, at the time when the Legate at Avignon was one of the d’Amboise family, in fact the nephew of Georges d’Amboise, who was Legate of France, there lived in Languedoc a certain lady whose name, for the sake of her family, I shall not reveal. She had an income of more than four thousand ducats, had been widowed at an early age, and had been left with one son. Whether out of sorrow at the loss of her husband or whether out of her love for her child, she had vowed never to remarry. To avoid any situation that might lead to her doing so, she insisted on having nothing to do with anyone except people who were devout. She thought that it is opportunity that leads to sin, and did not realize that it is the reverse: sin manufactures opportunity. This young widow gave herself up entirely to attending divine service. She shunned all worldly gatherings – to such an extent that she even made going to weddings and listening to the organ in church a matter of conscience. When her son was seven years of age, she took on a man of saintly ways as the boy’s tutor, so that he might be instructed in all devotion and sanctity. But when he was between fourteen and fifteen years old, Nature, that most secret of teachers, found that this well-grown lad had nothing to occupy him and began to teach him lessons somewhat different from those of his tutor. He began to gaze upon and to desire the things that seemed to him full of beauty. And amongst these things there was a young lady who slept in his mother’s room. No one suspected anything, since he was regarded as no more than a child, and in any case, in that household nothing was heard but godly conversation. Well, the young gallant started making secret advances to the girl, and the girl came to complain to her mistress. The boy’s mother loved her son so much and had such a high opinion of him that she thought the girl was making the complaint simply in order [to turn her against him]. But the girl persisted in her complaints, and in the end her mistress said:

  ‘I will find out if what you say is true, and if what you say is indeed true, I will punish him. But if your accusation is false, it will be you who shall pay the penalty.’

&nbs
p; In order to establish the truth of the matter, then, she instructed the girl to make an assignation with her son. He was to come at midnight and join her in the bed where she slept alone by the door of her mistress’s chamber. The girl dutifully obeyed, but when the evening came, it was the mother who took her place. If the accusation was true, she was resolved to give her son such a chastising that he would never in the whole of his life get in bed with a woman without remembering it. Such were her angry thoughts, when her son appeared and climbed into the bed with her. But, even though he had actually got into the bed, she still could not believe that he would do anything dishonourable. So she did not speak immediately, waiting till he gave some clear sign that his intentions were bad, for she could not believe on such slender evidence that his desires might go as far as anything criminal. She waited to see what he would do. So long did she wait, and so fragile was her nature, that her anger turned to pleasure, a pleasure so abominable, that she forgot she was a mother. Even as the dammed-up torrent flows more impetuously than the freely flowing stream, so it was with this poor lady whose pride and honour had lain in the restraints she had imposed upon her own body. No sooner had she set her foot on the first rung down the ladder of her chastity, than she found herself suddenly swept away to the bottom. That night she became pregnant by the very one whom she had desired to prevent getting others with child. No sooner had the sin been committed than she was seized with the most violent pangs of remorse, remorse so deep that her repentance was to last her whole life long. She rose from her son, who still believed he had lain with the young girl, and in bitter anguish withdrew to a room apart, where, going over in her mind how her good intentions had come to such wicked fruition, she spent the rest of the night in solitary weeping and gnashing of teeth. Yet, instead of humbling herself and recognizing how impossible it is for our flesh to do otherwise than sin unless we have God’s help, she tried to give satisfaction for past deeds through her own means, through her tears and through her own prudence, to avoid future evil. Her excuse for her sin was the situation she had been placed in, never evil inclination, for which there can be no remedy but the grace of God. She thought it would be possible in the future to act in such a way as to avoid slipping again into such unfortunate circumstances, and, as if there were but one kind of sin that can damn us, she bent all her efforts to avoiding this one alone. But the root of pride, which external sin should cure, only grew and increased, with the consequence that by avoiding one kind of evil she merely fell in the way of several others. For the very next morning, as soon as day broke, she sent for her son’s tutor and said to him: