The Heptameron

by Marguerite de Navarre

Sister Marie had been warned by one of her companions who knew what had been going on that if she answered in any way that displeased the Prior again, he would surely place her in pace in other words, have her locked away for life. So she heard her sentence in silence, her eyes raised Heavenward, as she prayed to Him who had been her stay against sin that He would now give her patience to endure her sufferings. The Prior further prohibited her from speaking to her mother and other relatives when they visited the convent for a period of three years, and she was not to write any letters other than those written in community.

  After this the wretched man left the convent never to return again. As for the poor girl, she continued to suffer for some considerable time because of the punishment the Prior had imposed on her. However, her mother, who loved Marie the best of all her children, was extremely surprised when she stopped receiving news from her daughter. She spoke to one of her sons, a man of wisdom and honour, of how she believed that her daughter was dead, and that the nuns were concealing the truth for the sake of the annual payment. She begged him to find some way, no matter what, of finding out whether his sister was alive. So he went to the convent without delay, only to be told the usual tale – that his sister had been sick in bed for the past three years and was quite unable to move. He refused to be satisfied with this and swore that if he was not allowed to see his sister he would climb over the walls and force his way into the convent. The nuns were so alarmed that they brought his sister to the grille, but the Abbess kept so close to her that she could hear every word she spoke to her brother. However, Sister Marie, full of good sense as she was, had put in writing all that has been recounted above, together with a thousand other acts of deception committed by the Prior in his attempts to seduce her. It would take too long to tell you everything, but there is one thing I mustn’t forget to tell. During the time when Sister Marie’s aunt was still Abbess it had occurred to the Prior that he might have been rejected because he was ugly. So he arranged for temptation to be put in her way in the shape of another monk who was both young and handsome, hoping that if she yielded to the younger man for love, she might, if intimidated, yield to him also. But in the event, when the young monk accosted the poor girl in the garden with certain proposals and certain indecent gestures that I’d be too embarrassed to describe, she immediately ran off to the Abbess, who happened at the time to be in conversation with the Prior himself.

  ‘Mother, Mother,’ she cried, ‘these monks that come to visit us, they’re demons in disguise!’

  The Prior, terrified in case he was found out, turned to the Abbess and said with a laugh: ‘Without a shadow of doubt, Mother, she is right!’

  Then he caught hold of Sister Marie’s hand, and said for the Abbess’s benefit: ‘I had heard that Sister Marie spoke very well indeed that she had such a nimble tongue that she was generally thought to be rather worldly in her ways. So, much against my natural disposition I forced myself to say to her all the things that men of the world are accustomed to say to women – just as I have read in books, for I have never had any personal experience of such matters and am as ignorant about them as the day I was born. When she answered back in such a virtuous manner I thought it must be because I am so old and ugly. So I instructed my young brother to say the same sort of things to her, and as you see, she has virtuously resisted him also. I deem her exceedingly virtuous and good, and in view of her qualities I would like her from now on to have a position in this convent second only to your own and be in charge of the novices, so that her good intentions may flourish and continue to grow in virtue!’

  This deed and several others were perpetrated by our fine monk during the three years he was enamoured of this nun – who, as I said, wrote the whole unhappy story down on paper and handed it to her brother through the grille. The brother sent the story to his mother, who in desperation came to Paris, where she found the Queen of Navarre, the King’s only sister, and showed her the piteous account her daughter had written, saying, ‘Never trust these hypocrites of yours again, Madame! I thought I had set my daughter on her way in the environs of Paradise, and I find I have placed her on the road to Hell, in the hands of the worst devils who could dwell there, for devils do not tempt us unless we so desire, but these men are willing to take us by force if desire is deficient!’

  The Queen of Navarre was greatly distressed to hear this, for she had complete faith in the Prior of Saint Martin’s – indeed she had placed him in authority over her own sisters-in-law, the Abbess of Montivilliers and the Abbess of Caen. But the crime so horrified her that she was anxious to avenge the innocence of the poor girl at once and promptly informed the King’s chancellor, who at that time was the papal legate in France. The Prior of Saint Martin’s was duly sent for. All that he could offer by way of excuse was that he was a poor old man of seventy. He made an appeal to the Queen, begging her [in the name of all the favours she might ever wish him], and in recompense for all his past services, that she would have the proceedings stopped. He would then publicly declare that Sister Marie Héroët was the very pearl of honour and virginity. The Queen was so amazed when she heard this that she did not know what to reply, and simply left him standing there. The poor man, covered in shame, went back to his monastery. He refused to be seen again by anyone and lived for only another year. Sister Marie Héroët received the recognition she [deserved] for the virtues implanted in her by God. She was removed from the Abbey of Gif, where she had witnessed so much wickedness, and on the order of the King himself was appointed Abbess of the Abbey of Gy near Montargis. She reformed the Abbey, and there she continued to live, full of the spirit of God, and constantly praising Him for having restored her honour and her tranquillity.

  *

  ‘That, Ladies, is a story which demonstrates what we read in the Gospel [and in Saint Paul’s Epistle to the Corinthians] – that God chooses the weak things of the world to confound the things which are mighty, and the things which are despised in the eyes of men to confound the glory of those who think they are something, yet are nothing. And note well, Ladies, that without the grace of God there is no man in whom we may believe goodness to dwell. Equally, there is no temptation which with Him one cannot victoriously overcome, as you can see from the discomfiture of this man who believed himself to be among the righteous, and from the exaltation of this girl whom he wished to appear sinful and wicked. And in this is proven the truth of the saying of Our Lord: “Everyone that exalteth himself shall be abased; and he that humbleth himself shall be exalted.”’

  ‘Ah! What a disgraceful thing!’ exclaimed Oisille. ‘To think that the Prior deceived so many good and decent people! For I can see that they placed more trust in him than in God.’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t have been one of them,’ said Normerfide. ‘The mere sight of a monk fills me with horror –I couldn’t even bring myself to make my confession to one. In my view they’re the worst possible type of men and never attach themselves to a household without leaving a trail of dissension and disgrace behind them.’

  ‘There are some good ones,’ Oisille said, ‘and one must not judge them all adversely merely because of the bad ones. But the best ones are the ones who are least given to frequenting the houses of the laity and keeping company with women.’

  ‘What you say is true,’ said Ennasuite, ‘because the less you see of them, the less you know about them, and the less you know about them, the higher your opinion of them is. You soon find out what they’re like if you have much to do with them.’

  ‘Well,’ said Nomerfide, ‘let’s leave it at that – laissons le moustier où il est, * as you might say, and see who Geburon is going to pick to speak next.’

  Geburon was anxious to make amends for the offence, if offence it was, of having exposed the appalling and disgraceful life of a corrupt monk in order to give warning against those who were equally hypocritical. He held Oisille in high esteem – as indeed she deserved to be held, for she was a lady of great wisdom and as slow to speak ill of peo
ple as she was quick to praise and proclaim the good she knew to be in them – so it was she whom he asked to tell the next story.

  ‘I ask Madame Oisille to speak next, in order that she may tell us something in favour of the religious life.’

  ‘We have all so firmly sworn to speak the truth,’ replied Oisille, ‘that I could not undertake to plead that case. Moreover, your story has reminded me of a tale so tragic that I am compelled to tell it to you, for it happened in my time and near my part of the country. Therefore, Ladies, in order that your minds should not be so beguiled by the hypocrisy of men who consider themselves more religious than others that your faith, diverted from the straight and narrow path, seeks salvation in some other creature rather than in Him alone who desired no companion in our creation and redemption, in Him alone who is almighty to save us unto eternal life and in this temporal life to console us and deliver us from all our tribulations, knowing that often Satan transforms himself into an Angel of Light – in order, I say, that your eye should not alight on external things, blinded by the outward appearance of sanctity and devotion, and linger on those things that it ought to shun, it seems good to me that I should tell you this story, for it is a story that is of [our] time.’

  STORY TWENTY-THREE

  There lived in the Périgord a certain gentleman who was so devoted to the cult of Saint Francis that he was under the impression that anyone who wore the Franciscan habit must be as holy as the good Saint himself. It was in the Saint’s honour that he had had bedrooms and dressing-rooms built in his house to accommodate the Franciscan brothers, and he followed their advice in everything, even the smallest domestic matters. In that way, he thought, he must surely be on the right road. Now it happened that the gentleman’s wife, who was very beautiful and no less wise and virtuous, produced a fine male child. Her husband’s affection for her was doubled, and in order to provide a celebration for his dear wife, he sent for one of his brothers-in-law. As supper-time approached, along came a certain friar, whose name for the sake of his order I shall not reveal. The husband was delighted when he saw him, for the man was his spiritual father from whom he had no secrets. After the gentleman, his wife, his brother-in-law and the friar had talked for a while, they all sat down to supper. As they ate, the gentleman looked at his wife, who had all the grace and beauty required in a woman to arouse a husband’s desire, and for all to hear he asked of the friar: ‘Is it true, father, that it is a mortal sin for a man to sleep with his wife during the period after her confinement?’

  The friar replied sternly, although the way he spoke and the expression on his face were the opposite of what he felt in his heart.

  ‘There is no question, Monsieur. I believe it to be one of the most grievous sins that can be committed in matrimony. You have only to consider the example of the Blessed Virgin Mary, who would not enter the Temple until after her Purification, although of purification she had no need. It is plain, therefore, that you most certainly should abstain from this small pleasure, just as the Virgin Mary, in order to obey the Law, abstained from going into the Temple where alone she could find her consolation. What is more, Monsieur, the doctors of medicine say that there is considerable danger for any offspring that might be conceived under such circumstances.’

  The gentleman was somewhat disappointed to hear this, because he had hoped that the good father would give him permission. But he did not pursue the matter any further. As for the good father himself, he had drunk somewhat more than he ought, and as he spoke he too was taking a look at the lady of the house, and thinking to himself that if he had been the husband, he would not have asked for advice before lying with her. Thus, even as a fire is kindled and spreads little by little until the whole house is alight, so [this poor] frater began to burn with such concupiscence that he resolved then and there to quench his desires once and for all – desires which he had for three whole years now kept hidden in his heart.

  Once the tables had been cleared away, he took the gentleman by the hand, led him to his wife’s bedside, and as she listened said to him: ‘Monsieur, since I know well what great love is between yourself and Madame here present, and since such love combined with such youth can cause such torment, I am moved to compassion for you, and am minded to tell you a secret of our holy theology. For the law, which is so strict with regard to abuses on the part of indiscreet husbands, has no desire to permit men of good conscience such as yourself to be deprived of true understanding. Consequently, Monsieur, although when in the presence of other people I stated the rigour of the law’s provisons, I must not conceal from you, who are wise, its provisions of mercy. Know therefore, my son, that there are women and women, even as there are men and men. In the first instance we must know from Madame here present, since it is now three weeks since the time of the birth, whether she is yet free of the flux of blood?’

  To this she replied that she was completely clean.

  The friar said, ‘I can grant you permission to sleep with her, and you need have nothing on your conscience, provided that you promise me two things.’

  The gentleman of course consented willingly.

  ‘The first thing is that you speak of this to no one and go to your bed in secret. The second thing is that you do not go to your bed until after two o’clock in the morning, so that you do not disturb Madame’s digestion with your pleasures.’

  The husband promised solemnly on his oath to do these things. The good father knew the man was more a fool than a liar, and was quite sure he would be as good as his word. So after they had talked a little while longer he retired to his room, wishing them both a good night and piously pronouncing his benediction. As he went out, he took the gentleman by the hand, and said: ‘Monsieur, you must be sure to go now, for you must not keep the dear lady awake any longer.’ The gentleman gave his wife a kiss, saying, ‘Leave your door open for me, my dear!’ This the fine father heard and duly noted. The two men then went to their respective rooms. But the friar had no intention of sleeping or resting. As soon as the house had gone quiet, at about the time he was accustomed to go to matins, he rose and crept stealthily to the lady’s bedroom. The door had been left open for the master of the house, so in he went, cunningly snuffed out the candle, and jumped straight into bed with his host’s wife without uttering a word. Thinking it was her husband, the lady said: ‘Now, now, my dear! You’re not keeping that promise you made to our confessor! You said you wouldn’t come till two!’ Our Franciscan, by this time more intent on the active than the contemplative life, was afraid of being recognized, so concentrated more on satisfying the lusts that had so long infected his soul than on offering a reply, and this surprised the lady considerably. When the Franciscan saw that it was near the time when the husband was to come, he got out of bed and returned to his own room as quickly as he could.

  Before it had been raging lust that had prevented him sleeping, now it was the terror that always follows vice [and sin] that robbed him of all repose. He went down to the porter, and said: ‘My friend, I have been asked by Monsieur to go to our monastery at once to say some prayers which he devoutly desires. I beg you, fetch my horse for me, and open the door without making any noise, for it is a very secret and urgent matter that is in hand.‘ The porter, who thought that he would be doing his master a great service in obeying the Franciscan’s instructions, quietly opened the door and let him out. It was then that the husband woke up and saw that it was nearly the time when the friar had said he could go to his wife. So he clambered out of bed and hurried along in his nightshirt to her bedroom – where by God’s ordinance he had a perfect right to go without seeking permission from mortal men. His wife, who did not realize what had happened, was extremely surprised to hear his voice in the dark at her bedside and said:

  ‘What is this? So this is how you keep your promises to the good father! You said you would be careful with your health and with mine, and now not only do you come earlier than you should do, but you come back again! What are you thinking of!�
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  The gentleman was so disconcerted to hear this that he could not hide his annoyance, and said: ‘These are fine words! I know in all truth that I’ve not been to bed with you for the past three weeks, and you’re complaining now because I come to your bed too often. If you continue in this way, you’ll make me think that my company displeases you and force me against all my habits and inclinations to look elsewhere for the pleasures which according to God’s law I should take with you!’

  The wife, thinking he was joking, replied:

  ‘Come now, Monsieur! Do not deceive yourself in thinking you’re deceiving me! For though you did not speak to me last time you came, I knew full well that you were there!’

  Then he realized that someone had deceived both of them, and he swore solemnly to his wife that he had not yet been to her bed. Overcome with despair at this she pleaded amidst tears and lamentations that her husband make all speed to discover who it could have been, for the only other people sleeping in the house were her brother and the friar. Strongly suspecting the friar, the gentleman went straight to the bedroom [where he had been staying] and found it empty. To be more sure that the friar had left the house, he called for his gatekeeper and asked if he knew what had become of the good father. The gatekeeper told him the truth, and the gentleman, now certain of the evil deed that had been done, went back to his wife’s room and said: ‘My love, it is certain that it was our fine father confessor who came to your bed and performed his good works!’

  All her life this lady had been careful for her honour. She fell into such a state of desperation that all human compassion and all feminine gentleness deserted her, and on her knees she implored her husband to take vengeance for this outrage. The husband lost not a moment, but jumped on his horse in hot pursuit of the Franciscan. Meanwhile the lady lay alone in her bed, with no counsel or consolation apart from her little newborn son. She dwelt upon the terrible thing that had happened and with no excuse for her ignorance judged herself guilty, the most miserable woman in the world. She had learnt from the Franciscans nothing but confidence in good works, satisfaction for sins through austerity of life, fasting and chastisement. She had remained ignorant of the grace given by our good God through the merit of His Son, ignorant of the remission of sins by His blood, ignorant of the reconciliation of the Father with us by His death and ignorant of the life given to sinners through His goodness and mercy. So deeply was she disturbed, so sorely beset by despair which sprang from the gravity and enormity of the sin, from her love for her husband and from her concern for the honour of her lineage, that it seemed better by far to die than to live such a life. Overwhelmed by her grief, she sank into such despair that not only was she diverted from the hope in God that every Christian ought to have, but became alienated too from all rationality and all remembrance of her own nature. Overwhelmed by sorrow, driven on by despair, no longer in the knowledge of God, no longer knowing herself, and in a state of violent frenzy, she seized one of the cords hanging from her bed and strangled herself with her own hands. But worse still, in the agony of this horrible death, her body, still struggling against extinction, writhed in such a manner that her foot came down upon her little child’s face. His innocence was no guarantee that he should not follow his sorrowing, suffering mother into death. As he died, he let out such a cry that a woman who slept in the room got up immediately and lit a candle. There was her mistress hanging strangled from the bed-cord, the child lying dead, suffocated beneath her foot. In horror the woman ran into the brother’s room and brought him to behold this tragic spectacle.