*
‘Ladies, it strikes me that if all the men who offend their wives like that got a punishment like that, then Hircan and Saffredent ought to be feeling a bit nervous.’
‘Come now, Longarine,’ said Saffredent, ‘Hircan and I aren’t the only married men here, you know.’
‘True,’ she replied, ‘but you’re the only two who’d play a trick like that.’
‘And just when have you heard of us chasing our wives’ maids?’ he retorted.
‘If the ladies in question were to tell us the facts,’ Longarine said, ‘then you’d soon find plenty of maids who’d been dismissed before their pay-day!’
‘Really,’ intervened Geburon, ‘a fine one you are! You promise to make us all laugh, and you end up making these two gentlemen annoyed.’
‘It comes to the same thing,’ said Longarine. ‘As long as they don’t get their swords out, their getting angry makes it all the more amusing.’
‘But the fact remains,’ said Hircan, ‘that if our wives were to listen to what this lady here has to say, she’d make trouble for every married couple here!’
‘I know what I’m saying, and who I’m saying it to,’ Longarine replied. ‘Your wives are so good, and they love you so much, that even if you gave them horns like a stag’s, they’d still convince themselves, and everybody else, that they were garlands of roses!’
Everyone found this remark highly amusing, even the people it was aimed at, and the subject was brought to a close. Dagoucin, however, who had not yet said a word, could not resist saying: ‘When a man already has everything he needs in order to be contented, it is very unreasonable of him to go off and seek satisfaction elsewhere. It has often struck me that when people are not satisfied with what they already have, and think they can find something better, then they only make themselves worse off. And they do not get any sympathy, because inconstancy is one thing that is universally condemned.’
‘But what about people who have not yet found their “other half”?’ asked Simontaut. ‘Would you still say it was inconstancy if they seek her wherever she may be found?’
‘No man can know,’ replied Dagoucin, ‘where his other half is to be found, this other half with whom he may find a union so equal that between [the parts] there is no difference; which being so, a man must hold fast where Love constrains him and, whatever may befall him, he must remain steadfast in heart and will. For if she whom you love is your true likeness, if she is of the same will, then it will be your own self that you love, and not her alone.’
‘Dagoucin, I think you’re adopting a position that is completely wrong,’ said Hircan. ‘You make it sound as if we ought to love women without being loved in return!’
‘What I mean, Hircan, is this. If love is based on a woman’s beauty, charm and favours, and if our aim is merely pleasure, ambition or profit, then such love can never last. For if the whole foundation on which our love is based should collapse, then love will fly from us and there will be no love left in us. But I am utterly convinced that if a man loves with no other aim, no other desire, than to love truly, he will abandon his soul in death rather than allow his love to abandon his heart.’
‘Quite honestly, Dagoucin, I don’t think you’ve ever really been in love,’ said Simontaut, ‘because if you had felt the fire of passion, as the rest of us have, you wouldn’t have been doing what you’ve just been doing – describing Plato’s republic, which sounds all very fine in writing, but is hardly true to experience.’
‘If I have loved,’ he replied, ‘I love still, and shall love till the day I die. But my love is a perfect love, and I fear lest showing it openly should betray it. So greatly do I fear this, that I shrink to make it known to the lady whose love and friendship I cannot but desire to be equal to my own. I scarcely dare think my own thoughts, lest something should be revealed in my eyes, for the longer I conceal the fire of my love, the stronger grows the pleasure in knowing that it is indeed a perfect love.’
‘Ah, but all the same,’ said Geburon, ‘I don’t think you’d be sorry if she did return your love!’
‘I do not deny it. But even if I were loved as deeply as I myself love, my love could not possibly increase, just as it could not possibly increase if I were loved less deeply than I love.’
At this point, Parlamente, who was suspicious of these flights of fancy, said: ‘Watch your step, Dagoucin. I’ve seen plenty of men who’ve died rather than speak what’s in their minds.’
‘Such men as those,’ he replied, ‘I would count happy indeed.’
‘Indeed,’ said Saffredent, ‘and worthy to be placed among the ranks of the Innocents – of whom the Church chants “Non loquendo, sed moriendo confessi sunt”! I’ve heard a lot of talk about these languishing lovers, but I’ve never seen a single one actually die. I’ve suffered enough from such torture, but I got over it in the end, and that’s why I’ve always assumed that nobody else ever really dies from it either.’*
‘Ah! Saffredent, the trouble is that you desire your love to be returned,’ Dagoucin replied, ‘and men of your opinions never die for love. But I know of many who have died, and died for no other cause than that they have loved, and loved perfectly.’
‘As you seem to know some stories on the subject,’ said Longarine, ‘I would like to ask you to take over from me and tell us one. That will be the ninth story of the day.’
‘In order that signs and wonders may prove the truth of my words, and bring you to believe in them,’ he began, ‘I shall recount to you something that happened not three years ago.’
STORY NINE
There was once a nobleman who lived in the land between Dauphiné and Provence. Better endowed with virtue, good looks and good breeding than he was with material possessions, he loved a lady of high birth. I shall not tell her name, out of consideration for her family, all of whom are of exalted lineage, but you may rely upon it that the story is a true one. Because this gentleman was not of the lady’s stock, he did not dare to reveal his feelings. Knowing that he was of such lowly station, he could never hope to marry her, yet his love for her was so deep and so perfect that he would have rather died than wish anything to her dishonour. So his love was founded on no other desire than to love her with a love as perfect as it was in his power to make it, and so long did he love her in this fashion that in the end the lady herself became aware of his devotion. It was, she knew, a noble love, full of goodness and virtuous intent, and she deemed it an honour to be adored by one so pure. The kindness she showed him exceeded anything he had dared to expect, and he was well contented.
But Envy and Malice, enemies of all repose, could not suffer them to live this life so sweet and yet so virtuous. For there were people only too ready to run to the girl’s mother and say to her how surprised they were to see the gentleman at her house so often, how they suspected that he came because he was attracted by her daughter and how he had frequently been seen talking to her. But the mother entertained no doubts whatsoever concerning the gentleman’s virtue; indeed she had no less confidence in him than she had in her own children. It was therefore with some distress that she learnt that his visits were being seen in a bad light. In the end, afraid lest, human nature being what it is, malicious gossip might lead to some sort of scandal, she decided to ask him not to come to the house for a while. This was very hard for him to bear, because he knew that his conversation with the daughter of the house had been entirely honourable and that he in no way deserved to be estranged from her in this fashion. But in order to put a stop to mischievous talk, he submitted, and remained away from the house until the rumours had died down.
When he resumed his visits, he was as steadfast as ever. Absence had not caused his love to diminish. But he heard during one of his visits that there was talk of the girl being married to a gentleman who was not, in his opinion, so much richer than himself that he had any superior claim to her. So he began to take courage, and persuaded his friends to speak up in his favour, for he was s
ure that if the lady were given the choice, it would be himself that she would choose. But the fact remained that the other man was somewhat richer, and it was consequently he who was the choice of the mother and the family. The poor gentleman, who knew that his lady’s loss was no less than his own, was utterly downcast, and, though he was otherwise a healthy man, began little by little to waste away. His handsome features became obscured by the mask of death, as he sank hour by hour towards a welcome grave. Yet he could not resist the compulsion to visit the lady he loved so much, so that he might speak with her. But his strength was draining from him, and at length, unable to rise from his bed, and unwilling to force his suffering on his beloved, he abandoned himself to sorrow and despair. He lost all desire to eat or drink. He could neither sleep nor rest. His friends could no longer recognize his haggard face.
However, the girl’s mother was a lady of great charity, and was, moreover, well-disposed towards the gentleman. Indeed, had hers been the prevailing view in the family, they would have preferred his good qualities to all the wealth of the other man, but the father’s relatives in particular were opposed to him. This did not stop the mother, once she was informed of the poor man’s state, taking her daughter to visit him in his distress. They found him more dead than alive. He had that very morning, feeling that his end was nigh, made his confession and received the sacrament. He had expected to die without seeing anyone again, but the sight of the lady who was his life and his resurrection brought him back from the brink of death. As she entered, his strength returned. He started up in his bed, and addressed her mother:
‘What has moved you to come to see me, Madame? What has brought you to see a man who already has one foot in the grave, and of whose death you yourself are the cause?’
‘How is it possible,’ she exclaimed, ‘that the man we are so fond of should die because of us? Tell me, I beg you, why you say such things.’
‘Madame,’ he began, ‘I have disguised to the utmost of my ability the love which I bear your daughter. But, alas, my relatives have spoken to you of marriage, and in so doing they have made known my love more freely than I desired, for now I must suffer the blow of seeing my hopes dashed to the ground. It is not my happiness alone that concerns me, because I know that with ho one else could she ever be so deeply loved or so lovingly cared for. Now she is to lose a friend, the best and most loving friend she has, and that she should lose such a blessing is more painful to me than death itself. While I lived, I lived for her alone. But now my life can be of no more service to her, so I lay it down, and losing little, gain much.’
The gentleman’s words moved the mother and daughter to do their best to comfort him.
‘Take heart,’ said the mother, ‘I promise on my word that when God has restored your health, my daughter shall marry you, and no one else. Here she is, and I’ll tell her to give you her word as well.’
The girl wept, and earnestly assured him she would do as her mother promised. But he knew that if he recovered he would not be granted his beloved. He knew that their earnest words were only meant to raise his spirit a little. Had they but spoken in that fashion three months ago, he sighed, then he would today have been the happiest and healthiest man in France. But it was now too late to help him. He could place no trust in the succour they offered, nor rest any hopes on it. When they protested and tried again to reassure him, he went on:
‘Since you promise me a blessing that can never come to pass, even if it were your wish, and since I am sinking fast, I shall ask you a lesser favour, but a favour that I have never before had the boldness to ask.’
Together they swore that they would grant him his wish, however bold.
‘Then I implore you,’ he said to the mother, ‘to place in my arms her whom you promised me as wife, and to tell her to embrace me and to kiss me.’
The daughter, unaccustomed to such intimacies, began to protest. But her mother ordered her to do as the gentleman requested, for it now seemed that all strength and all feeling had left him. So she leaned over the poor sick gentleman’s bed, saying: ‘Dear friend, do not be so downcast.’
The dying man stretched out his emaciated arms, and with all the strength remaining in his bones embraced her who was the sole cause of his death. He placed his cold pale lips on hers, and kissed and held her as long as he was able. Then he said:
‘The love I have borne you has been’ deep and noble, so deep and so noble that never did I wish to be granted other than in marriage the blessing that now I have received. That was not to be, but with the blessing I now have, I gladly commend my spirit unto Him who is all perfect love and charity, and who knoweth how deep was my love, how noble my desire, beseeching Him, that having my desire in my arms, He may receive my spirit into His.’
So saying, he clasped her in his embrace again, and with such force, that his already weakened heart could not sustain the effort. All his vital spirits left him, dilated in the rapture. The seat of his soul was no more, and his soul itself took wing to its Creator. Long after the poor lifeless body had loosened its grip, the girl lay in its embrace. The love she had always felt but kept concealed broke forth now with such vehemence that her mother and the servants were able only with difficulty to separate their united bodies. Alive, but worse than dead, she was pulled from the corpse’s embrace.
The gentleman was buried with due honour. But the highest tribute at his burial were the tears and lamentations of the girl. As she had hidden away her love during his life, so after his death she made it known to all. It was as if she desired to make up for the wrong she had done him, and I have heard that for all they gave her a husband to console her, she never in her life knew true happiness.
*
‘Now, Gentlemen,’ concluded Dagoucin, ‘you who refused to believe what I said before, do you not find this case enough to force you to admit that perfect love can, through being too carefully concealed and too little known, lead lovers to their death? There isn’t one among you who doesn’t know the families concerned, so you can have no doubts as to the facts, though no one who has not had personal experience may actually believe them.’
There was not a lady present who did not have tears in her eyes. But Hircan said: ‘I’ve never heard of such a fool in all my life! Does it make sense, I ask you, that we men should die for the sake of women, when women are made solely for our benefit? And does it make sense to hesitate to demand from them what God Himself has commanded that they should let us have? I’m not speaking for myself, of course, or for other married men. As far as women and so forth are concerned, I’m quite satisfied already – more than satisfied! But I mean those who aren’t – they’re very stupid to be afraid of women, when it’s women who should be afraid of them! And as for the girl, don’t you see how much she regretted having been so silly? She was happy enough to kiss the corpse, repugnant to nature though it is. So she wouldn’t have refused physical contact if the man had had a little more nerve while he was alive, and been a little bit less pathetic on his deathbed!’
‘Nevertheless,’ said Oisille, ‘the gentleman clearly showed that the love he bore her was noble and good, and for that he deserves high praise before all men. For chastity in a lover’s heart is a thing more divine than human.’
‘Madame, I support Hircan’s point of view,’ said Saffredent, ‘and if you want confirmation of what Hircan says, bear in mind that Fortune favours the bold. There was never a man, you know, who didn’t in the end get what he wanted from any lady who really loved him, so long as he went about wooing her ardently and astutely. But because of ignorance and some sort of stupid timidity there are men who miss many a good opportunity in love. Then they attribute their failures to their lady’s virtue, even though they never get anywhere near testing it. To put it another way, you’ve only got to attack your fortress in the right way, and you can’t fail to take it in the end!’
‘I’m shocked that you two can talk like that!’ exclaimed Parlamente. ‘From what you’ve just said, the la
dies you’ve been in love with can scarcely have been very faithful to you – or else you’ve only gone for immoral women anyway, and think that all the others are like them!’
‘Mademoiselle, I do not have the good fortune to be able to boast of my conquests,’ Saffredent replied, ‘but I attribute my misfortune less to ladies’ virtue than to my own failure to undertake my ventures with the right degree of care and astuteness. I don’t want to quote the learned doctors to you. My sole authority is the old woman in the Roman de la Rose, who said:
“Remember, sir, it’s Nature’s plan,
It’s every man for every maid,
And every maid for every man!”
So I shall always believe that once a woman has love in her heart the outcome cannot fail to be happy for the man concerned, provided he does not persist in his own stupidity.’
‘And just suppose,’ said Parlamente, ‘that I were able to name a lady who had been truly in love, who had been desired, pursued and wooed, and yet had remained an honest woman, victorious over the feelings of her heart, victorious over her body, victorious over her love and victorious over her would-be lover? Would you admit that such a thing were possible?’
The Heptameron Page 12
