The Heptameron

by Marguerite de Navarre

  ‘No, Monseigneur, no! What you seek cannot be. Even though I am no more than a worm in comparison with you, my honour is precious to me, and there is no pleasure in this world for which I would damage it. I would rather die! And what makes me tremble is the fear that the people who saw you come in here doubt that those are my true feelings. Since you do me the honour of coming to speak to me, I am sure you will forgive me if I reply as honour itself requires. Monseigneur, I am neither so blind, nor am I so foolish, that I cannot see that God has endowed you with grace and beauty, and that the woman who shall possess the body and love of such a prince will be the happiest woman in the world. But of what good is all that to me? It’s not for me, nor for anyone of my station in life. It would be madness even to long for it. What other reason can I think you have for coming to me, if it is not that the ladies of your household (whom you must surely love if you have any love for beauty and for grace) are so virtuous that you do not dare to ask from them or even hope from them that which because of my low station you think you can have from me? I am sure that if you had what you wanted from people like me, it would be just one more thing to keep your mistress amused for an hour or two, telling her about your conquests at the expense of those weaker than yourself. But I beg you, Monseigneur, to accept that I am not like that. I was brought up in your house, and that is where I learnt what love is. My mother and father were both good servants of yours. So I beg you, since God has not made me a princess who could marry you, nor even of a rank where I could be your beloved mistress, do not try to lower me to the rank of those poor and wretched women who have succumbed. For I regard you as the happiest and most fortunate prince in Christendom, and would not wish it otherwise. And if you really wish to amuse yourself with women of my station, then you will find plenty in this town who are far more attractive than I, and who won’t put you to the trouble of all these entreaties. Be satisfied with those women who will be only too glad to have you buy their honour, and don’t go on tormenting the one person who loves you more than she loves herself. If it came about today that God should demand either my life or yours, I would consider myself blessed indeed to offer mine to save yours. It is not lack of love that makes me shun your company. Rather it is because I care too well for my conscience and for yours. My honour is dearer to me than life itself. If it is your wish, Monseigneur, I shall remain in your good graces, and pray my whole life long for your health and for your prosperity. It is true that this honour which you do me will make me more highly esteemed among people of my own kind – for they will say, what man of her own station will she deign to consider now? So my heart will be free, except for one obligation, which I shall ever willingly accept – that of praying for you. No other service can I ever render you.’

  Although this honourable reply was not what he had wanted, the young prince respected it none the less when he heard it. He did everything he could to convince her that he would never love anyone else. But she had too much sense for anything so unreasonable to take hold in her mind. During this dialogue he received repeated messages that his change of clothes had arrived from the château, but he was so contented where he was that he sent word that he was still asleep, and delayed until supper-time, when, because of his mother, who was one of the most virtuous ladies in the world, he dared delay no longer. So he left his butler’s house imbued with greater respect than ever for the girl’s virtue. He talked about her often to the gentleman who slept in his bedchamber, and the gentleman, being of the opinion that money was more effective than love, recommended him to offer the girl a respectable sum of money [in order to make her condescend] to do as he desired. The young prince’s mother was in charge of his finances, and he only received small sums to spend on his own amusement. But he saved these, and putting them together with what he was able to borrow, he managed to raise the sum of five hundred écus. This he instructed his gentleman to take to the girl with the request that she should now change her mind. However, when she saw the gift, she said to the young prince’s gentleman:

  ‘Kindly tell Monseigneur that my heart is pure and honourable, and that if I felt compelled to obey his commands, I would have already been conquered by his grace and beauty. But if grace and beauty have no power over my honour, then all the money in the world will be useless. So take it back to him, for I prefer to live in poverty with my honour intact than to possess all the riches that could ever be desired!’

  Hearing this blunt reply, the gentleman began to think that the only way to possess her would be to employ intimidation, so he resorted to threatening her with his master’s power and authority. But she only laughed at him and said:

  ‘You can try frightening women who don’t know him, but I know that he is too virtuous and too good to say such things himself, and I am sure he will disclaim them when you tell him. But even if what you say were true, even torture and death could not make me change my mind. For as I have already said, since love has not led my heart astray, there is no threat, no gift in the world that could make me stray from my chosen path.’

  The gentleman, who had promised his master that he would win her over, reported what she had said with considerable irritation, and tried to persuade him that he should continue to press her by all the means available, arguing that it [would be a great dishonour] to fail to vanquish a woman of this kind. The young prince, however, only wanted to make use of honourable means, being also afraid that if the story reached his mother’s ears she would be extremely angry with him. So he did not dare take any further steps until the gentleman eventually presented him with such an easy plan that when he heard it, he felt that the girl was already as good as in his arms. What he had to do was to have a word with the butler, who was ready and willing to serve his master in whatever way was required. So one day the butler asked his wife and his young sister-in-law to go to inspect the grape harvest at a house he had close by the forest, and this the two women promised to do. When the appointed day came, the butler sent word to the young Prince, whose intention it was to meet them there, alone except for his gentleman. His mule was ready, waiting in secret for the moment of departure. But as God willed, that was the day on which the Prince’s mother was engaged in the decoration of a private gallery, the most beautiful in the world, and she had all her children helping her. So there the Prince had to stay until the agreed time came and passed. It was scarcely the butler’s fault, for he had dutifully taken his sister-in-law on his horse to the house by the forest, having first made his wife pretend she was ill and say, just as they were setting out, that she would not be able to accompany them. When he saw that it was getting past the time when the prince was to appear, he said to his sister-in-law, ‘I think we can go back to town now.’

  ‘And who’s been stopping us?’ asked Françoise.

  ‘Monseigneur the Prince had promised to come,’ replied the butler, ‘and I was waiting for him.’

  Hearing this and realizing the base intention behind it, she said, ‘Don’t wait any longer for him, brother. I know he won’t be coming today.’

  Her brother-in-law accepted this, and took her back home. Once in the house she gave vent to her anger, telling him that he was the servant of the Devil and that he was going a lot further than he had been ordered. She was certain that what he had done was entirely his and the gentleman’s work, and not the work of the young prince himself. All her brother-in-law wanted, she said, was to get his fingers on the prince’s money by encouraging him in his weaknesses, rather than acting as a good servant should. And now that she knew what he was like, she would not stay in his house a moment longer. Thereupon, she sent for her brother to take her to his own part of the country, and moved out of her sister’s house immediately.

  The plan having failed, the butler went off to the château to find out why it was the young prince had not come. [Scarcely had he arrived] when he saw the prince on his mule, alone except for the gentleman who was his confidant.

  ‘Well, is she still there?’ asked the young princ
e.

  The butler told him what he had done and what had happened. The prince was extremely upset at the failure of this plan. which he had regarded as absolutely his last hope of [possessing her]. So, seeing there was nothing more he could do about it, he set about looking for her and eventually found her with some people from whose company she could not easily escape. He burst out in anger when he saw her, accusing her of being harsh and cruel towards him and of deserting her brother-in-law’s house. Françoise replied that she had never come across a worse or a more dangerous man than her brother-in-law. The prince was indebted indeed to his butler, she went on, seeing that the man not only gave his body and possessions in his master’s service, but also his very soul and conscience! When the prince realized that this time there was really nothing more he could do, he decided to press her no further, and for the rest of his life he regarded her with great respect. One of his servants wanted to marry the girl when he saw how virtuous she was, but she would not accept before the prince, to whom she had given all her affection, had approved the marriage and given his orders for it. She had the matter brought to his attention, and it was finally thanks to his goodwill that the marriage took place. For the rest of her days she lived a life of blameless reputation, and the young prince bestowed great benefits upon her.

  *

  ‘Well, Ladies, what are we to make of that? Are our hearts so base that we allow our servants to become our masters? The girl in the story could not be overcome either by the force of love or by the torment of importunity. My appeal to you is that we should all follow her example, that we should be victorious over ourselves, for that is the most worthy conquest that we could hope to make.’

  ‘There is only one thing I would regret,’ said Oisille, ‘and that is that the virtuous actions of this young girl didn’t take place in the time of the great [Roman] historians. The writers who praised Lucretia so much would have left her story aside, so that they could describe at length the virtue of the heroine of your story. Indeed, [I find your heroine’s virtue so great, that were it not for the fact that we have solemnly sworn to tell the truth in our stories, I would find it incredible.’]

  ‘I don’t find her virtue quite so great as you do,’ said Hircan. ‘For just as in certain illnesses the patient sometimes loses his taste for good wholesome food and prefers food that is bad and dangerous to his health, so it could be that this girl had some gentleman or other of her own rank who made her disdain nobility.’

  But to that Parlamente replied that the girl’s life and end showed that no man alive found a place in her heart save the man whom she loved more than her life, though not more than her honour.

  ‘You may put notions like that out of your mind,’ intervened Saffredent, ‘and let me tell you about the origin of the term “honour” as it’s used by women. Perhaps those women who are always talking about it don’t know how the word came into being. You see, in the beginning, when ill-will was not quite so widespread amongst men as it is now, love was so naturally open and so vigorous that there was no need at all for any kind of dissimulation, and the more perfectly you loved, the more you were praised. But then greed and sin came and took hold of [men’s hearts,] drove out both God and love, and in their place put love of self, hypocrisy and deceit. Now, seeing that their hearts [lacked] the virtue of genuine love, and that the term “hypocrisy” incurred odium, women dubbed it “honour” instead. Then those who were incapable of true and honourable love said that it was “honour” which was forbidding them! And in fact they made it into such a harsh and rigid law that even women who are capable of perfect love dissemble, because they regard what is really virtue as a vice. But women of good sense and sound judgement never fall into this error. They know the difference between black and white. They know that true honour lies in purity of heart, which should live by love alone and not pride itself on its capacity for the vice of dissimulation.’

  ‘Even so,’ said Dagoucin, ‘people say that it is the most secret love that is the most admirable.’

  ‘Yes,’ added Simontaut, ‘secret from those who might criticize it, but openly acknowledged at least by the two people concerned.’

  ‘That is what I mean,’ replied Dagoucin, ‘indeed it would be better for it to go unknown by one of the two than for it to be known to a third, and it is my view that the girl’s love was all the greater because she did not reveal it.’

  ‘Be that as it may,’ said Longarine, ‘one should always give due respect to virtue, and the greatest manifestation of virtue is to overcome one’s emotions. Considering the opportunities which this girl had when she might have been tempted to override her conscience and forget her honour, considering her virtue in overcoming her heart and her desires, and considering the way she resisted the man she loved above all else, I declare that she was worthy to be truly called a woman of strength and honour.’

  ‘Since you take the degree of self-mortification as the measure of virtue,’ [Saffredent said,] ‘I declare that the prince in the story was even more to be praised than the girl, because in spite of his love for her he still refrained from utilizing his power, although he had ample opportunity to do so. He refused to contravene the rules of true love, according to which prince and pauper are equals, and the methods he used remained within the bounds of honour and decency.’

  ‘There are many men who would have behaved quite differently,’ said Hircan.

  ‘All the more reason to admire him,’ said Longarine, ‘because he managed to overcome the evil common to all men. Blessed is the man who has the power to do wrong and yet does not do it.’

  ‘All this reminds me of a woman.’ said Geburon, ‘who was more afraid of causing offence in the eyes of men than she was of displeasing God or of acting against love and conscience.’

  ‘Then tell us the story,’ said Parlamente. ‘I nominate you to speak next.’

  ‘There are people,’ Geburon began, ‘who have no God at all, or if they do believe in a God, they think He is so remote from them that He can’t see or hear the bad things that they do. And even if they do think He can see them, they think He doesn’t care and that He won’t punish them because He isn’t bothered about the things that go on down on earth. Now there was once a young lady (whom for the sake of her family I shall simply call Jambique) who held such views. She often remarked that one was extremely fortunate if one only had God to worry about and was able to preserve one’s honour in the eyes of men. But, Ladies, neither her prudence nor her hypocrisy could stop her intimate secrets being revealed – as you will see from my story, in which the whole truth will be told, with the exception of the names of people and places, which will be altered.’

  STORY FORTY-THREE

  In a beautiful château there once lived a great and powerful princess. In her retinue she had a young lady called Jambique, a rather haughty girl by whom she was so taken in that she did nothing without first consulting her, for she regarded her as the most sensible and virtuous lady of her day. This Jambique was always condemning illicit love, and if she came across any men enamoured of her companions she used to reproach the lovers sharply and make such a damning report to the princess that often they would receive a severe reprimand. Not surprisingly, therefore, Jambique was more feared than loved. She herself never spoke to men at all, except in a loud, arrogant voice, and she had acquired the reputation of being the mortal enemy of love – although in the depths of her heart she was the very opposite. For there was a certain gentleman in the service of her mistress with whom she had fallen so much in love that she could scarcely bear it. But she was so infatuated with the idea of her honour and reputation that she was obliged to conceal her love for the man entirely. She suffered her passion for a good year, but refused to be like other women in love and obtain relief by means of a glance here and a word there. The fire of passion was so intense within her breast that she was driven to resort to the ultimate remedy. And she settled the matter by telling herself that it was better to satisfy her desire
and have God alone know what was in her heart, than to tell a mere mortal who might reveal all.

  Having reached this conclusion, it happened that one day, when she was in her mistress’s chamber gazing out idly on to the terrace, she saw the object of her affections taking a walk in the garden. She watched him there until evening fell and it was too dark to see. Then she called one of her little page-boys and pointed the gentleman out to him.

  ‘Do you see that gentleman,’ she said, ‘with the crimson satin doublet and the robe edged with lynx fur? Go and tell him that there’s a friend of his who wants to speak to him in the arcade in the garden.’

  While the page did this, she went out through her mistress’s private room into the garden, with a mask covering her eyes and her cap pulled down over her face. When the gentleman appeared she quickly closed the doors, so that no one should find them, and whispered as quietly as she could:

  ‘For a long time, my love, the love that I bear you has made me desire a time and a place to see you. But my fear for my honour was so great that against my will I was constrained to hide my passion. Yet in the end the power of love has overcome my fears. I know you are an honourable man, and so, if you will promise to love me and never tell a soul, nor ask me who I am, I will promise in turn to be a good and faithful mistress to you and never to love another man. But I cannot tell you who I am, for I would rather die.’

  The gentleman promised everything she asked, and so she in turn was ready to do the same for him – to let him have whatever he might wish. It was five or six on a winter’s evening, and he could see nothing, but as he touched her clothes, he found they were of velvet – and in those days it was not every day one wore velvet, unless one was of high birth and had an important position. And as he felt what lay beneath, he found that there too everything was of high quality, firm and generally in good shape! So he made it his business to give her of his best. She did likewise. And so the gentleman also learned that the lady was married.