The Heptameron

by Marguerite de Navarre

  ‘Yes,’ said Geburon, ‘but his daughters and his descendants would have borne the stigma for ever.’

  ‘He shouldn’t have killed her,’ said Longarine, ‘for once rage had subsided, she could have lived with him as an honourable woman and the whole thing would have been forgotten.’

  ‘Do you really think,’ said Saffredent, ‘that he had really calmed down, just because he had managed to conceal his anger? I think that the day he made the salad he was just as angry as at first, because there are people whose first movements never subside till their passion is put into effect. And I’m glad to say the theologians regard this kind of sin as readily pardonable. I share their view on this.’

  ‘One needs to watch one’s words with people as dangerous as you,’ said Parlamente, ‘but what I said was meant to apply to cases where the passion is so great that it suddenly over-whelms the senses, and does so to such an extent that reason cannot operate.’

  ‘Taking that point further,’ said Saffredent, ‘I would argue that a man who is deeply in love does not commit a sin, or only commits a venial sin, whatever he does. Because I’m certain that if he is in the grip of perfect love, he will not hear the voice of reason, either in his heart or in his understanding. And, if we’re truthful about it, there’s not one among us who’s not experienced this wild passion, which, I believe, is readily pardonable. What is more, I believe that God is not even angered by sin of this kind, since it is one step in the ascent to perfect love of Him, to which one cannot ascend without passing up the ladder of worldly love. For St John says: “How shall you love God, whom you see not, unless you love him whom you see?”’

  ‘There is not a single text in Holy Scripture, however beautiful,’ Oisille said, ‘that you would not turn to your own ends. But take care lest, like the spider, you turn wholesome meat into poison. Be you assured that it is indeed dangerous to draw on Scripture out of place and without necessity.’

  ‘Do you call telling the truth “out of place” and “without necessity”?’ said Saffredent. ‘Do you mean to say, then, that when we’re talking to you unbelieving ladies and call God to our aid, do you mean that we’re taking His name in vain? But if there’s any sin in that, it’s you who should take the blame – because it’s your unbelief that obliges us to look for all the oaths we can possibly think of. And even then we can’t kindle the fire of charity in your icy hearts!’

  ‘That just shows,’ said Longarine, ‘that you’re all liars – for the truth is so mighty that we could do no other than believe you, were truth in the words you spoke. But the danger is that the daughters of Eve are too ready to believe this serpent.’

  ‘I can see, Parlamente, that women are invincible,’ replied Saffredent. ‘So I shall keep quiet, to see who Ennasuite will choose to speak next.’

  ‘I shall ask Dagoucin, ‘ she said, ‘because I do not think he will speak against the ladies.’

  ‘Would to God,’ he said, ‘that they responded as much in my favour as I desire to speak in theirs! And to show how I have striven to honour virtuous ladies by recounting their good actions, I shall now tell you about one such action. I do not deny, Ladies, that the gentleman of Pamplona and the President of Grenoble showed great patience, but they also showed no less vindictiveness. When one wants to praise a virtuous man, one should not exalt a single virtue to such an extent that one also has to make that one virtue a cloak for some great vice. A virtuous person is one who performs virtuous acts solely for the love of virtue – as I hope now to show you, with the example of [the virtue and patience] of a lady whose good deed had no other end than the honour of God and the salvation of her husband.’

  STORY THIRTY-SEVEN

  There was once a lady of the house of Loué, who was so good and virtuous that she was loved and admired by all her neighbours. Her husband quite properly entrusted all his affairs to her, and she conducted his business so prudently that through her efforts his house came to be one of the richest and best appointed in the lands of Anjou and Touraine. She lived happily with her husband for many years, and bore him several fine children. But all happiness must come to an end, and hers too began to fade, for her husband became dissatisfied with their quiet, respectable life and abandoned her to seek excitement elsewhere. He adopted the habit of getting up as soon as his wife was asleep, and not returning till morning was close. The lady of Loué was distressed by his behaviour, and so much so that, having sunk into a state of jealousy which she desired to conceal, she neglected her domestic affairs, herself and her family. It was as if she felt that she had lost the fruit of all her labours in losing her husband’s love, and would have willingly suffered anything to keep it. However, she saw clearly that it was lost, and became so neglectful of everything else in the household that the ill-effects of the husband’s absences soon became obvious. On the one hand he began to spend recklessly, and on the other she no longer attended to the domestic affairs. So it was not long before the household became so disorganized that they started felling the timber on their estates and even mortgaging the land. One of her relatives, who knew what was ailing her, reproached her and told her that even if she would not consider the family fortunes for love of her husband, then she ought at least to think of the poor children. She was moved by this appeal to rally her spirits and to bend all her efforts to winning back her husband’s love. So, one night, she waited for him to get up, and after he had done so, she rose also and put on her dressing-gown. Then she had the bed made, and said her devotions while waiting for his return. When eventually he came in, she went up to him and gave him a kiss. At the same time she presented him with a bowl of water, so that he could wash his hands. He was amazed at this unaccustomed behaviour, and told her that he had only been to the privy and had no need of a wash. But her reply was that although it was not of any great importance, still it was only decent to wash one’s hands when one had been somewhere foul and dirty, thereby wishing to bring him to acknowledge and abhor his wicked ways. In spite of this he did not amend his life, and the lady went on with this ritual for a good year. She realized that it was all to no purpose, and one day, having waited for her husband longer than usual, she had a sudden desire to go and fetch him. So she went from room to room until she found him in an obscure closet asleep in bed with the ugliest, dirtiest and foulest chambermaid in the house. She would teach him to leave an honest woman for this foul and dirty creature, she thought. And she set fire to some straw in the middle of the room. But as soon as she saw that the smoke was as likely to kill him as wake him, she grabbed hold of his arm, shouting ‘Fire! Fire!’ If the husband was overcome with shame and deeply distressed to be discovered by his virtuous wife in bed with such filth, it was not without good reason. The wife then said:

  ‘Monsieur, I have been trying for the past year to save you from your wicked ways. I have tried to exercise patience and kindness, to show you that in washing the outside, you should be also inwardly cleansed. But when I saw that it was all to no avail, I decided to employ that element which shall bring an end to all things. And I assure you, Monsieur, that if you do not thereby amend your life, then I do not know if I shall have it in my power a second time to save you from danger. I beg you to remember that there is no greater despair than love, and if I had not constantly had my eyes on God, I could not have endured what I had to endure.’

  The husband, glad to escape so lightly, promised never again to give her cause to suffer on his account. The lady willingly took his word for it and, with his consent, cast out that which offended her. And from that time on, they lived together in such great affection, that past misdeeds only increased their happiness by the good that had come of them.

  *

  ‘Ladies, I beg you, if God has given you such husbands, do not finally despair until you have tried all possible means of bringing them back. For there are twenty-four hours in a day in which a man may change his mind. A woman should consider herself more fortunate to have won her husband through patience and long-sufferi
ng than to have been provided with a more perfect one by parentage and fortune.’

  ‘That was an example of which all married women should take note,’ said Oisille.

  ‘Anyone who cares to may follow that example,’ said Parlamente, ‘but as far as I’m concerned, it would be impossible to be so patient, because although patience may be a fine virtue in all other situations, it seems to me that in marriage it must lead to ill-feeling. The reason is that if one suffers because of one’s partner, one is obliged to separate oneself from him or her as far as possible, and this estrangement gives rise to contempt for the one who has been unfaithful, and contempt leads in turn to diminution of love, since one’s love for a person depends on one’s estimation of his worth.’

  ‘But,’ said Ennasuite, ‘there’s a danger that the impatient wife will have a violent husband, who would give rise to suffering rather than patience.’

  ‘And what worse could a husband do than what we’ve just heard in the story?’ said Parlamente.

  ‘What?’ replied Ennasuite. ‘He might beat her, make her sleep in the servant’s bed and put the woman he loves in his own bed!’

  ‘I believe,’ said Parlamente, ‘that any woman of honour would be less distressed at being beaten in a fit of rage than at being despised because of someone who is not of equal worth. Once a wife has borne the pain of separation after such affection, there’s nothing a husband can do that could distress her further. That is why the story says that the efforts she made to draw him back were out of love for her children, and I think this is true.’

  ‘And do you consider it was patience and long-suffering to go and light a fire under his bed?’ asked Nomerfide.

  ‘Yes,’ said Longarine, ‘because when she saw the smoke, she woke him up – and that perhaps was her great mistake. Husbands like that ought to be burnt and their ashes used for the washing!’

  ‘You are cruel, Longarine,’ said Oisille, ‘but you did not live thus with your own husband.’

  ‘No,’ said Longarine, ‘because, thank God, he never gave me occasion. On the contrary, I shall miss him for the rest of my life, not complain about him.’

  ‘And supposing he had treated you like that,’ said Nomerfide, ‘what would you have done?’

  ‘I loved him so much,’ she replied, ‘that I think I would have killed him and myself afterwards. For vengeance and death would be preferable to living faithfully with a man who had been unfaithful.’

  ‘It seems to me,’ said Hircan, ‘that you only love your husbands for your own sakes. If they’re the way you want them, you love them well enough, and if they commit the slightest error, it’s like losing a week’s pay just because you fail to work on Saturday! You always want to be in command, and this I accept for my part, but let other husbands agree to it!’

  ‘It’s reasonable that the man should govern us as our head,’ said Parlamente, ‘but not that he should abandon us or treat us badly.’

  ‘God has so wisely ordained,’ said Oisille, ‘both for men and for women, that, provided one does not abuse it, marriage is, I believe, the finest and surest state in this world; and I am sure that all of us here, whatever impression they may wish to give, are of the same opinion. And as the man claims to be wiser than the woman, so he will be the more severely punished if the fault is on his side. But enough has been said. Let us see who Dagoucin will choose to speak next.’

  ‘I call on Longarine,’ said Dagoucin.

  ‘I accept with pleasure,’ she said, ‘and have a tale that is worthy to follow yours. Since we are praising virtue and patience in women, I shall give you an even more laudable case than the one we’ve just discussed, a case that is all the more admirable as it concerns a townswoman, for townswomen are not usually so virtuously brought up as other women.’

  STORY THIRTY-EIGHT

  In the town of Tours there was once a virtuous and beautiful woman. She was loved by her husband, but also admired and respected by him for her virtuous qualities. However, such is the fragility of men that they soon tire of bread which is good and wholesome, and this husband was no exception. He fell in love with a woman who farmed his land.* He took to making trips to the country to inspect his farm, and staying there for a day or two. But when he returned to Tours, he always had such a bad cold that his poor wife had her work cut out to get him on his feet again. As soon as he recovered he would be off again to his farm, where the pleasures he enjoyed made him forget all his ills. His wife cared above all things about his life and his health, and when he kept coming back in such bad shape she went to the farm herself, where she found the young woman who was the object of her husband’s affections. She did not lose her temper, but said in the most gracious possible way that she knew that her husband often came to see her. What worried her, however, was that he appeared to be so poorly cared for during his visits that he always came home with a bad cold. The poor woman, partly because she was overawed by the presence of her landlady, partly because she could not deny the truth, made no protestation, and begged forgiveness. The lady demanded to see the room and the bed her husband slept in. She found the room so cold, dirty and ill-kept that she felt sorry for him, and immediately sent away for a good bed with sheets and counterpane – just the kind her husband liked. She had the room decorated and hung with tapestries. She provided decent crockery for him to eat and drink from, a cask of good wine, and a supply of sweetmeats and preserves. Then she requested the woman kindly not to send her husband back so run-down in future. It was not long before he went as usual to see his métayère, and was astonished to find her humble dwelling so well appointed. He was even more surprised when she gave him a drink in a silver cup! He asked her where all these belongings had come from, and the poor lass burst into tears, saying that it was his wife who had furnished the house because she was worried about him, and had asked her to keep an eye on his health. The husband realized how good his wife was to do all this for him after the rotten tricks he had played on her, and had to admit to himself that his behaviour was no less wicked than hers was virtuous. So he gave a sum of money to his métayère, begged her in the future to live like a decent woman, and then went back to his wife. He confessed his debt, saying that if she had not acted with such goodness and kindness, he would never have been able to give up the kind of life he had been leading. And leaving the past behind them they lived from that time on in harmony together.

  *

  ‘Believe me, Ladies, there are few husbands who cannot be won round by a wife who is patient and loving. If they cannot, then they must be harder than rock, for even rock is in the end worn down by the soft, gentle flow of water.’

  To this Parlamente replied: ‘That woman had no heart and no backbone!’

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Longarine. ‘She was practising God’s command to do good to those who wrong you.’

  ‘I think,’ said Hircan, ‘that she was in love with some Franciscan who’d ordered her by way of penance to make things nice for her husband when he was in the country, so that while he was there she had the chance to stay in the town and be nice to the friar!’

  ‘Come now, you are just showing how malicious you really are,’ said Oisille, ‘to judge ill of what was a worthy act. I believe that she was so purified by divine love that her sole concern was to save her husband’s soul.’

  ‘It seems to me,’ said Simontaut, ‘that he would have had more reason to go back to his wife when he was shivering with cold on his farm than when she made him comfortable there.’

  ‘Apparently you’re not of the same opinion as a certain wealthy Parisian,’ said Saffredent, ‘who was incapable of taking off his costly garments without catching cold when he went to bed with his wife! Yet when he went to see the chambermaid in the cellar in the depths of winter, wearing neither hat nor shoes, he never came to any harm at all – even though the wife was very beautiful and the servant very ugly!’

  ‘Haven’t you heard,’ said Geburon, ‘that God is good to fools, lovers and drunkard
s? The man in the story might have been all three at once!’

  ‘Do you mean by that,’ said Parlamente, ‘that God is not good to the wise, the chaste and the sober?’

  ‘Those who can help themselves don’t need help from anywhere else,’ said Geburon, ‘for He who said that He came not to help the healthy, but the sick, came by the law of His mercy to heal our infirmities and to repeal the harsh decrees of His justice. He who would be wise is a fool before God. But to bring our sermon to a close, who will Longarine choose to speak next?’

  ‘I’ll choose Saffredent,’ replied Longarine.

  ‘Well then,’ Saffredent said, ‘I hope to show you, by means of an example, that God does not favour lovers. For, Ladies, although it has been said earlier that vice is equally shared by men and women, it is in fact women rather than men who will the more eagerly and craftily devise acts of cunning. I shall give you my example.’

  STORY THIRTY-NINE

  There was once a Seigneur de Grignols, a chevalier d’honneur in the household of Anne of Brittany, Queen of France, who on returning home after an absence of more than two years found his wife living on a neighbouring estate. On asking her the reason for this, she replied that there was a ghost in the house, which had been tormenting them so much that no one could stay there any longer. Monsieur de Grignols, who was not a man to believe such fabrications, told her that he at least was not afraid, even if it was the Devil himself, and took his wife straight back to the house. That night he lit a lot of candles so that he could see the ghost. After he had waited up a long time without hearing anything, he finally fell asleep. He was woken up immediately by a great slap on his cheek, and heard a voice crying out ‘Brenigne! Brenigne!’ which had been his grandmother’s name. He called out to [the woman] who slept close by to light another candle, because the ones he had lit earlier had all gone out. But she did not dare to move. Then the Seigneur de Grignols felt the counterpane pulled off him, and could hear tables, trestles and stools falling around the bedroom. The clatter went on until morning, but the Seigneur was more worried about losing his sleep than about the ghost, since he was not in the slightest inclined to believe it really was one. The next night he made up his mind to catch it, and, shortly after getting into bed, he started to snore loudly, keeping his hand at the ready by his face. After a while, he felt something coming up to him. So he snored louder than ever. This made the ghost bolder, and it gave him an even harder slap than before. Instantly the Seigneur de Grignols grabbed its hand as it landed on his face, and shouted to his wife, ‘I’ve got the ghost!’ She jumped out of bed, lit some candles and saw that the ghost was the chambermaid who slept in their room. The girl fell on her knees and begged their forgiveness, promising to tell the truth. She had for a long time been having a love affair, she said, with another servant of the house, and it was this that had led her to put on this act, in order to drive the master and mistress out of the house. The pair had hoped they would be left in sole charge, so that they could make merry all on their own together– which was exactly what they had done. Monsieur de Grignols, who was a rough sort of fellow, gave orders for both of them to be given such a beating that they would never forget their ghost, and when this had been duly carried out, he threw them out of the house once and for all. Thus was the house of the Seigneur de Grignols delivered of the ghosts by whose antics for two whole years it had been haunted!