The Heptameron

by Marguerite de Navarre

  ‘That is an opinion,’ said Simontaut, ‘which I would argue to be heretical before all the Inquisitors of Christendom! Many more men than women are capable of being discreet, and I know that one can find men who would rather not be received kindly at all by a lady, [if] it meant that any living creature should hear of it. That is why the Church, as a good mother, has ordained that priests, not women, should be confessors, because women are incapable of concealing anything.’

  ‘That,’ said Oisille, ‘is not the real reason. The real reason is that women are such great opponents of vice that they would not grant absolution as easily as men, and the penances they imposed would be more severe.’

  ‘If women were as severe in imposing penances as they are in their replies,’ said Dagoucin, ‘then they would throw more sinners into the depths of despair than they would ever draw to salvation. So whatever the case may be, mother Church has provided well. But for all that I don’t wish to condone the gentlemen who boasted about their “prison”, for a man never deserved honour for speaking ill of ladies.’

  ‘Since they shared a common misfortune,’ said Hircan, ‘I think that they did right to console one another.’

  ‘But,’ replied Geburon, ‘for the sake of their honour they should never have confessed. The books of the Round Table tell us that it is not honourable for a knight to vanquish an unworthy opponent.’

  ‘I’m surprised,’ said Longarine, ‘that the poor woman didn’t die of shame when she saw her “prisoners” in front of her.’

  ‘Women who have lost their shame,’ Oisille replied, ‘recover it again only with great difficulty, unless it be that some great love caused it to be temporarily forgotten. Amongst those women who lost their shame for love I have seen many turn back to the path of virtue.’

  ‘I believe,’ said Hircan, ‘that you have indeed seen women in love turn back. For great love in women is not easy to find.’

  ‘I do not agree with you,’ said Longarine, ‘because I believe there are women who have loved until death.’

  ‘I am so anxious to hear your story,’ said Hircan, ‘that I invite you to be the next to speak, so that we can find out about this love in women, which I personally never thought they had.’

  ‘You’ll believe it when you’ve heard the story,’ Longarine said, ‘and you’ll accept that love is the strongest passion there is. Love makes people undertake things that are virtually impossible, in order to achieve some happiness in life. But, equally, it is love which more than any other passion leads men and women to despair when they lose all hope of attaining their desire – as you shall now see from my story.’

  STORY FIFTY

  Not long ago in the town of Cremona there lived a gentleman by the name of Messire Jean-Pierre, who had for a long time been in love with a certain lady who lived close by. But no matter how he approached her he could not obtain the answer he desired, although the lady really loved him with all her heart. So the poor gentleman, distressed and frustrated as he was, withdrew into himself and stopped going out. He resolved no longer to pursue in vain his heart’s desire and waste his life away. Thinking that he could divert his mind from his love, he went for several days without seeing her, but fell into such a melancholic state that people could scarcely recognize his face. His parents sent for the doctors, and the doctors, seeing his face had gone yellow, considered he was suffering from an obstruction in the liver, and prescribed a bleeding. Now the lady who up till then had been so hard-hearted, knew very well that his illness was entirely due to the fact that she had spurned him, and sent an old woman whom she trusted to give him a message. This old woman was to say to him that the lady now recognized that his love was true, that she had decided to grant him that which she had for so long refused. She had found a way of leaving the house and going to a place where he could meet her alone. The gentleman, who had been bled from the arm that morning, was restored to health far more effectively by this message than any medicine or blood-letting. He sent word that he would not fail to appear at the appointed hour, and that she had performed a manifest miracle, for by uttering a single word she had cured a man of a disease for which all the doctors had failed to find a remedy.

  When the night came which he had so long desired, the gentleman went to the appointed place. His happiness was complete, so complete that it could not increase but only come to an early end. Having arrived, he did not have long to wait before the lady whom he loved more than he loved his soul came to join him. He did not waste time making speeches. For the fire burning within him drove him on to seek that which he scarcely believed was within his power. Love and pleasure intoxicated him beyond all bounds, and fondly believing that in his reach he had a remedy to save his life, he merely brought about his early death. In his passion for his mistress he was oblivious of himself, and did not notice that the bandages of his arm were coming undone. The recent wound opened and the blood gushed forth so profusely that the poor gentleman was soaked in it. Feeling himself overcome by weakness, he thought it must be due to his excesses, and decided to return home. Then Love, who had united them too closely together, brought about their separation, for as the gentleman departed from his mistress, his soul departed from his body. The flow of blood was so great that he fell dead at the feet of his lady. And she, beside herself with grief, stood aghast as she pondered the loss of so perfect a lover whose death she alone had caused. [She considered too the shame] which would remain upon her if the body was found in her house, and in order to conceal what had happened she carried the corpse into the street with the aid of a trusted chambermaid. There, unable to leave the dead man, she took his sword, determined to share his fate. The cause of the disaster had been the heart, and the heart it was that she punished as she plunged the blade into her breast and fell dead upon the body of her lover. The next morning her mother and father came upon this pitiful spectacle as they left the house. And after mourning their loss in the fashion it deserved they buried the couple in one and the same grave.

  *

  ‘So you see, Ladies, that the extremes of love lead to [extremes of misfortune].’

  ‘It gives me great pleasure,’ said Simontaut, ‘to hear about a love which is so equal that when one partner dies the other no longer desires to live. And if God had given me the grace to find such a lady, then I believe no man would have loved more perfectly than I.’

  ‘Nevertheless,’ said Parlamente, ‘I’m quite sure that love has never blinded you so much as it did the young man in the story. You would have bandaged your arm better than he did! The time has passed when men give up their lives for ladies.’

  ‘But not the time when ladies give up the lives of their servants for the sake of their own pleasures!’ said Simontaut.

  ‘I think,’ said Ennasuite, ‘that there is not a woman in the world who would derive pleasure from seeing a man die, even if he were a mortal enemy. But if men actually want to kill themselves, there’s nothing ladies can do to stop them.’

  ‘Nevertheless,’ said Saffredent, ‘if a lady refuses to give bread to some poor wretch dying of hunger, then she is regarded as a murderess.’

  ‘If your requests were as reasonable as those of the poor begging bread in their hour of need,’ said Oisille, ‘then a lady would indeed be extremely cruel to refuse them. But the malady you are talking of only kills those, thank God, who would die anyway within the year!’

  ‘Madame,’ answered Saffredent, ‘I cannot think that a man can have any greater need than that which makes him forget all other needs. Indeed, when love is truly great, a lover knows no other bread, knows no other meat, than a glance, a word from his beloved.’

  ‘You would soon change your mind,’ Oisille said, ‘if anyone ever left you without anything to eat but that kind of food!’

  ‘I grant,’ he replied, ‘that the body might grow weak, but the heart and the will, never.’

  ‘In that case,’ said Parlamente, ‘God has been very gracious to you – since He has led you to love a l
ady who gives so little satisfaction that you are obliged to console yourself with food and drink, an obligation you fulfil very well, it seems to me. So you really ought to give thanks to God for such sweet cruelty!’

  ‘I am so used to feeding on sorrow, that I am beginning to count as blessings sufferings that others complain about!’ said Saffredent.

  ‘But perhaps,’ said Longarine, ‘it is in fact [your] moans and complaints which keep you away from the very company where, were you contented, you would be perfectly welcome. Nothing is so irritating as an importunate lover!’

  ‘As a cruel lady, you should say!’ said Simontaut.

  ‘It appears to me,’ said Oisille, ‘that if we wanted to listen till Simontaut had given us all his arguments on this subject which so concerns him, we might find ourselves here till compline instead of vespers. So let us go and thank God that this day has passed without more serious dispute.’

  Oisille rose first and the others followed her. Simontaut and Longarine went on arguing, with the greatest civility, until Simontaut, without drawing his sword, prevailed and demonstrated that the greater the force of passion, the greater the need of the victim. On this note they all went into the church, where the monks were waiting for them.

  When vespers were over they went to supper, just as hungry for conversation as for food. Their discussions continued till they were all seated around the table, and went on through the evening until Oisille suggested that they should all retire to give their minds a rest. The first five days had been filled with so many excellent stories, she said, that she feared the sixth day may not be the same, for even if they were to invent some stories, it would be impossible to tell better stories than the true ones which they had already told to one another. However, Geburon assured her that as long as the world endured there would be plenty of things worth recounting. ‘For the wickedness of evil men is the same now as it always has been. So too is the goodness of good men. As long as good and evil reign on the earth, the earth will be filled with new deeds, even though it is written that there is nothing new under the sun. For [we], who have not been called to God’s privy council and who are ignorant of the first causes of things, [find all things new, and the less we are able or willing to do them ourselves, the more wonderful we find them]. Therefore have no fear that the days that are left will not be as good as those that have passed, and think only of doing your duty as best you can.’

  Oisille said that she commended herself to God, and in His name bade them a good night. Thus the whole company retired, bringing the fifth day to a close.

  END OF THE FIFTH DAY

  SIXTH DAY

  PROLOGUE

  The next morning Oisille rose earlier than usual to prepare her reading in the hall. The rest of the company, having been told of this, and anxious to hear her excellent teaching, dressed themselves with such haste that they kept her waiting hardly at all. Oisille knew the fervour in their hearts, and read to them the Epistle of Saint John the Evangelist, an Epistle full only of love, because every morning till then she had been reading the Epistle of Saint Paul to the Romans. The assembled ladies and gentlemen found this such sweet nourishment that although they listened for half an hour longer than usual, it seemed to them that they had been there no more than a quarter of an hour. Afterwards they went to the contemplation of the mass, where they commended themselves to the Holy Spirit in order that they might that day satisfy those who would listen to them. After they had eaten, and rested for a while, they went off to spend their day in the accustomed manner. Madame Oisille asked them who should begin the day’s stories. Longarine replied: ‘I call upon Madame Oisille. The lesson she read us this morning was so beautiful that she cannot fail to tell us a story worthy to complete the glory she won this morning.’

  ‘I regret,’ replied Oisille, ‘that I cannot this afternoon tell you anything as rewarding as what I told you this morning. But at least the intention of the story that I shall tell you will not be out of keeping with the teaching of Holy Scripture, where it is written “Trust not in princes, nor in the son of man, in whom there is no salvation.” And, so that you will not forget this truth for want of an example, I am going to give you one which is true and so fresh to the memory that those who witnessed the pitiful sight I shall recount have hardly yet dried their tears.’

  STORY FIFTY-ONE

  The Duke of Urbino, called the Prefect, who had married the sister of the first Duke of Mantua, had a son of eighteen to twenty years of age, and this young man was in love with a girl from a good and noble family. She was the sister of the abbé de Farse. Since he did not have the freedom to speak with her as he would have liked (such was the local custom), the young man drew on the help of a gentleman in his service. This gentleman happened to be in love with a beautiful and virtuous young woman in the service of the Duchess, and it was through this young woman that the Duke’s son declared his great love to his beloved. The poor young woman saw no wrong in acting as messenger, and was glad to be of help, since she believed the young man’s intentions to be so good and noble that he could not possibly have desires which she could not honourably convey. But the Duke himself was more concerned with furthering the interests of his family than with pure and noble love. He was afraid lest his son run the risk of a commitment to marriage. So he had a keen watch put on him, and it was reported to him that the Duchess’s lady-in-waiting was involved in the carrying of letters on behalf of his son to the girl with whom he was so much in love. The Duke was so enraged that he resolved at once to put a stop to it. But he could not hide his anger sufficiently to prevent the Duchess’s lady-in-waiting hearing about it. She was overcome with terror, for she knew the extent of the Duke’s wickedness and that it was as great as his conscience was small. So she approached the Duchess to beg her for permission [to retire to a place away from court until the Duke’s fury had subsided. But the Duchess told her that she would try to discover her husband’s mood before giving her permission.] However, the Duchess very soon discovered how the Duke felt from the malevolent way he spoke of the affair, so not only did she grant permission to her lady-in-waiting, but also advised her to withdraw to a convent till the storm had passed. This the girl did with as much secrecy as possible, but not with sufficient secrecy to prevent the Duke finding out. Putting on a good-humoured air, he approached his wife and asked her where the young woman had gone. She, thinking that he knew all about it, told him what he wanted. When he heard, he pretended to be distressed, and said that there was no need to go to such lengths. He did not mean the girl any harm, and his wife must call her back, because the gossip would not do them any good. She replied that since the poor girl was so miserable because she had lost favour, then it would be better for the moment if she did not appear in his presence. But he would not listen to any of her objections, and ordered her to have the girl brought back at once. Accordingly the Duchess made the Duke’s wishes known. But the girl was not reassured, and begged her mistress not to make her take the risk. She knew very well, she said, that the Duke was less inclined to grant pardons than he pretended. Nevertheless, the Duchess assured her that she would not come to any harm, and vouched for it on her life and honour. The girl knew that her mistress was very fond of her and would not readily deceive her, so she took her promise on trust, feeling, moreover, that the Duke would never go against a promise pledged on his wife’s life and honour. Thus it was that she went back with the Duchess. But immediately the Duke was informed, he came into his wife’s room. No sooner had he set eyes on the girl than he said to his wife, ‘How can this creature dare to come back?’ Thereupon he turned to his gentlemen, and ordered them to arrest the girl and throw her into prison. The poor Duchess, who had persuaded the girl on her word to come out of her place of refuge, was overcome by despair and threw herself on her knees in front of him. She besought him for the sake of his own honour and for the sake of his family not to do such a thing, for it was she herself who, in order to obey him, had brought the girl back from h
er safe hiding-place. But none of her pleas, nor any of the arguments she could think of, were able to soften his hard heart, or overthrow his stubborn desire to avenge himself upon her. Without so much as a word in reply, he left the room, and ignoring all legal forms, God and the honour of his house, he had the girl cruelly put to death by hanging.

  I could not begin to describe the distress of the Duchess. I can only say that it was such as befitted a lady of honour and of noble heart who was obliged to witness the death of a person whom she had wished only to save and to whom she had pledged her word. Even less could one express the grief of the young man who had been her devoted servant. He took it upon himself to do everything in his power to save his beloved’s life, even offering to sacrifice his own in her place. But nothing could move the Duke’s heart to pity. His sole pleasure was to wreak vengeance on the people he hated. And so it was that this innocent young woman was put to death by this cruel Duke, against all laws of honour and justice, and to the great sorrow of all who knew her.

  *

  ‘Ladies, observe the effects of wickedness when combined with power.’

  ‘I had heard,’ said Longarine, ‘that the Italians are subject to three vices above all others, but I wouldn’t have thought that cruelty and the spirit of revenge would have gone so far as to put someone to death in such a cruel manner for such a trivial reason.’

  Saffredent said to her, laughing: ‘Longarine, you’ve mentioned one of the three vices. We must be told about the other two.’

  ‘If you don’t know what they are, then I’ll tell you. But I’m sure that you do know what they are, all of them.’