Then at last the Prince went home to bed, and finding his wife asleep, woke her up. ‘Guess what time it is, dear wife,’ he said.
‘I haven’t heard the clock strike since I came to bed,’ she replied.
‘It’s after three o’clock in the morning!’
‘Holy Jesus!’ she exclaimed. ‘And where have you been all this time, Monsieur? I do hope it’s not going to damage your health!’
‘Staying up will never make me ill, my love,’ said the Prince, ‘so long as I stop people who try to deceive me from getting their sleep!’
As he spoke he broke into such a hearty laugh that his wife begged him to tell her what it was all about. So, showing her the wolf-skin cloak his valet had brought back with them, he explained the whole story. Then, after laughing together for a while at the young man’s expense, they went to sleep, and slept sweetly and restfully, while the other two in their fear and anxiety lest their affair be revealed, spent the night in toil and turmoil. The next day, however, the young gentleman presented himself at the Prince’s levee in order to beg him not to expose him and to ask him to have his cloak returned. The Prince merely pretended that he had no idea what he was talking about, and kept up the pretence so convincingly that the young man did not know where he stood. But he learnt a lesson he had not been expecting, for the Prince assured him that if he was ever found in the lady’s room again, he would tell the King and have him banished from court.
*
‘Ladies, I ask you to judge whether it would not have been better for this poor lady to have been completely honest with the man who did her the great honour of loving and respecting her, than to force him by her dissimulation to find her out in a way that brought so much shame on her own head.’
‘She knew,’ said Geburon, ‘that if she confessed the truth, she would forfeit his good opinion entirely, and this was the last thing she wanted to do.’
‘It seems to me,’ said Longarine, ‘that since she had freely chosen a husband to suit her whim, she shouldn’t have been concerned about losing the friendship of other men.’
‘I really think,’ said Parlamente, ‘that if she had dared to announce the marriage, she would have been quite contented with her husband. But, because she wanted to keep it secret until her daughters were married, she didn’t want to lose such an honourable means of covering it up.’
‘It wasn’t that at all,’ Saffredent replied. ‘The fact is that women are so ambitious that one man isn’t enough for them. I’ve heard that the wisest of them like three: one for honour, one for profit and one for pleasure! All three of them think they are the most favoured, but the first two are only retained for the benefit of the third!’
‘You’re speaking of those women who possess neither love nor honour,’ said Oisille.
‘Madame,’ came the reply, ‘there exist women who are as I have described, women whom you regard as the most honourable women in the country.’
‘You may rely upon it,’ said Hircan, ‘a cunning woman will always find a way of surviving when everyone else would die of hunger.’
‘But when their cunning is found out, the discovery is death to them,’ said Longarine.
‘Not at all,’ said Simontaut. ‘It is life itself for them, because it’s no small distinction in their eyes to be regarded as more cunning than their sisters. And the reputation of being “cunning” which they earn themselves at men’s expense will more readily attract men into obedient servitude than will their physical beauty. For to conduct their liaison with cunning is one of the greatest pleasures lovers can have.’
‘What you’re talking about,’ said Ennasuite, ‘is base love, because true love does not need to be covered up.’
‘Oh! I beg you, put that notion out of your head,’ said Dagoucin. ‘The more precious the drug, the less it should be exposed, for one must beware of the malice of those who take account solely of external signs, signs that are the same, be one’s love [base] or be it true. One must hide these signs just as much when one’s love is virtuous as when it is not, in order not to risk being wrongly judged by those who cannot believe that a man can love a lady honourably. For, being slaves to pleasure themselves, they believe everyone else is also. But if we were all of good faith, neither words nor glances would be disguised, at least not from those who would rather die than think evil thoughts.’
‘Your philosophy, Dagoucin, I can tell you, is so high-flown that there isn’t a single man here who either understands it or believes it,’ said Hircan. ‘It seems that you would have us believe that men are either angels, devils or made of stone!’
‘I know indeed,’ replied Dagoucin, ‘that men are men and subject to all the passions. Nevertheless, there are some who would rather die than that for their pleasure the lady whom they love should do anything against her conscience.’
‘To say they would rather die is saying a lot,’ said Geburon, ‘and I wouldn’t believe it, even if I heard it coming from the most austere monk in the world!’
‘I’m quite sure,’ said Hircan, ‘that there isn’t a single man in this world whose desires are not in fact exactly the opposite of what Dagoucin says. It’s just that they cry sour grapes when the object of their desires is beyond their grasp!’
‘But,’ said Nomerfide, ‘I think this Prince’s wife must have been pleased that her husband found out what women are really like.’
‘I assure you that wasn’t the case,’ said Ennasuite. ‘On the contrary she was very distressed, because of her affection for the lady in question.’
‘I’d rather have the lady who laughed when her husband kissed her chambermaid,’ said Saffredent.
‘You shall tell us that story,’ said Ennasuite. ‘You may take my place.’
‘Although it’s a short story,’ began Saffredent, ‘I’ll tell it to you, because I’d rather make you laugh for a brief while, than make you weep at length.’
STORY FIFTY-FOUR
Somewhere between the Pyrenees and the Alps there once lived a nobleman by the name of Thogas. He had a wife, children, a fine house and so much wealth and pleasure that he had every good reason to be content with life. Apart from one thing. He was subject to great pain beneath the roots of his hairs. The pain was so severe that the doctors advised him to stop sleeping with his wife. She agreed to this willingly, concerned as she was solely for the health and well-being of her husband. So she had her bed placed in the other corner of the room, directly opposite her husband’s, so that neither of them could put their heads out without seeing one another. Now this lady had two chambermaids, and when she and the Seigneur de Thogas had gone to their beds, these two maids would often hold a candle for them while they each read some bedside book. To be more precise, the young one held the candle for the master of the house and the other one held the candle for his wife. Noticing that his chambermaid was younger and more attractive than his wife, Thogas began to take great delight in looking at her, and would interrupt his reading in order to talk to her. His wife could hear them talking, but considered it a good thing that the servants provided her husband with some entertainment, being sure that he loved nobody but her. However, one evening, when they had been reading for longer than usual, the lady of the house glanced along the side of her husband’s bed where the maid was holding the candle. She could only see the girl from behind, and her husband she could not see at all. But the side of the chimney, which came out in front of his bed, was white, and reflected the light from the candle. On this wall were clearly cast the shadows of the faces of her husband and the maid, and the wife could distinguish quite plainly what the two were doing – whether they were moving apart, getting closer together, or laughing. The husband, all unawares, and quite sure his wife could not see them, kissed the girl. The first time, the wife put up with it without saying anything. But when she saw that the shadows were coming together rather frequently, she was afraid that there was some reality hidden behind them. So she started to laugh out loud, with the result that the two
shadows, startled by the laughter, separated from one another. The husband asked her what she was laughing about and would she kindly share the joke.
‘My dear,’ she replied, ‘I’m such a silly thing that I laugh at my own shadow!’
Question her as he might, the husband could not persuade her to say any more. But he gave up kissing the shadowy face on the wall, all the same.
*
‘And that is what you reminded me of, when you were talking about the wife who was so fond of the lady adored by her husband.’
‘On my honour,’ exclaimed Ennasuite, ‘if my chambermaid had done such a thing, I would have got up and put the candle out on her nose!’
‘You’re very ruthless,’ said Hircan. ‘But it would not have done much good if your husband and the maid had turned round on you and given you a thorough beating. It’s not worth making a fuss about a kiss. And the wife would have done better to have said nothing, and let her husband have a little amusement. It might have cured him of his ailment.’
‘But,’ said Parlamente, ‘she was afraid that his little diversion would lead to something that would only aggravate his condition.’
‘She was not,’ said Oisille, ‘one of those against whom Our Lord speaks, saying “We have mourned to you, and you have not wept. We have sung unto you and you have not danced.” For, when her husband was sick she wept, and when he was happy she laughed. Thus should all women share equally the good and the bad, the joy and the sorrow, that befalls their husbands, and love, serve and obey him, even as the Church serves and obeys Jesus Christ.’
‘So it follows, Ladies,’ said Parlamente, ‘that our husbands should be towards us as Christ is towards his Church.’
‘And so we are,’ replied Saffredent. ‘What is more, we go further, if such a thing is possible. Christ only died once, but we die every day for our wives!’
‘Die!’ exclaimed Longarine. ‘It seems to me that you and the rest of you here are worth a good deal more now than you were when you were married!’
‘And I know why,’ said Saffredent. ‘It’s because our worth is put to the test so often. And our shoulders certainly feel the strain after being in harness for so long!’
‘If you had been obliged,’ said Ennasuite, ‘to wear armour for a whole month and sleep on the bare ground, you’d be only too glad to get back to your good wife’s bed and wear that “harness” you’re complaining about now. But they say that people can put up with anything except comfort, and that no one appreciates peace and quiet until they lose it.’
‘This [good] woman, who laughed when her husband was happy, had learnt to find peace everywhere,’ [said Oisille].
‘I think she liked peace and quiet better than she liked her husband,’ said Longarine, ‘seeing that whatever he did, she didn’t take it to heart.’
‘But she did take to heart anything that could have damaged his health or weighed on his conscience,’ said Parlamente, ‘though at the same time she didn’t care to waste time about things of little importance.’
‘You make me laugh when you mention conscience,’ said Simontaut. ‘Conscience is something I would rather a woman never troubled herself about.’
‘It would serve you right,’ said Nomerfide, ‘to have a wife like the one who, after her husband’s death, turned out to be more concerned about his cash than his conscience.’
‘Then will you tell us the story,’ asked Saffredent, ‘if I invite you to be the next speaker?’
‘I hadn’t intended to tell such a short story,’ replied Nomerfide, ‘but since it is to the point, I will do so.’
STORY FIFTY-FIVE
In the town of Saragossa there was a rich merchant. Seeing that his death was near, and that he could not take his wealth with him – wealth which perhaps he had not acquired altogether honestly – he thought that he might make some amends for his sins by making some little donation or other to God. As if God grants his grace in return for money! Anyway, he made arrangements regarding his house, and gave instructions that a fine Spanish horse of his should be sold, and the proceeds distributed to the poor [mendicants]. It was his wife whom he requested to carry out these instructions as soon as possible after his death. No sooner was the burial over and the first few tears shed, than the wife, who to say the least was no more stupid than Spanish women in general, approached her servant, who had also heard her husband’s wishes.
‘I think I’ve lost enough,’ said she, ‘in losing my husband whom I loved so dearly, without losing his property as well. Not that I want to disobey his instructions. In fact, I want to carry out his wishes even better than he intended. You see, the poor man was so taken in by those greedy priests. He thought he would make a sacrifice to God after his death by giving away a sum of money, not a single écu of which he would have given away during his lifetime, however great the need, as you know. So I’ve made up my mind that we shall do what he instructed us to do after his death – indeed we shall do better, and do what he would have done himself, had he lived a fortnight longer. Only not a soul must hear of it!’
The servant gave his word, and she went on: ‘You will go and sell his horse, and when they ask you how much you want, you will say one ducat. But I also have an excellent cat that I want to sell, and you will sell it at the same time, for ninety-nine ducats. Together the horse and the cat will fetch a hundred ducats, which is what my husband wanted for the horse alone.’
So the servant promptly went off to do as his mistress requested. As he was leading the horse across the square, carrying the cat in his arms, he was approached by a certain nobleman who had seen the horse before and was interested in acquiring it. Having asked the price, the nobleman received the answer: ‘One ducat!’
‘I should be obliged if you would be serious,’ said the man.
‘I assure you, Monsieur, that the price is one ducat. You have to buy the cat with it, of course. I can’t let the cat go for less than ninety-nine ducats!’
The nobleman thought this was a fair enough bargain. On the spot he paid one ducat for the horse, and ninety-nine for the cat, as requested, and led his purchases away. The servant took the money back to his mistress, who was extremely pleased, and lost no time in giving away the proceeds from the sale of the horse to the poor mendicants. As for the rest, that went to provide for the wants of herself and her children.
*
‘Well, what do you think of her? Wasn’t she wiser than her husband, and wasn’t she just as much concerned about his conscience as she was about doing well for her family?’
‘I think she loved her husband,’ said Parlamente, ‘but realized that most men’s minds wander when they’re on their deathbeds, and knowing what his real intention was, she wanted to interpret his wishes for the benefit of their children, and I think it was very wise of her to do so.’
‘What!’ exclaimed Geburon. ‘Do you not think it a grave error to fail to execute the last will and testament of deceased friends?’
‘Indeed I do!’ replied Parlamente. ‘Provided the testator is sound of mind and not deranged.’
‘Do you call it deranged,’ replied Geburon, ‘to give away one’s goods to the Church and to the poor mendicants?’
‘I do not call it deranged,’ she replied, ‘if a man distributes to the poor that which God has placed within his power. But to give away as alms what belongs to other people –1 do not think that shows great wisdom. It’s all too common to see the world’s greatest usurers putting up ornate and impressive chapels, in the hope of appeasing God for hundreds of thousands of ducats’ worth of sheer robbery by spending ten thousand ducats on a building! As if God didn’t know how to count!’
‘Indeed, I am frequently astonished,’ said Oisille, ‘that they presume to be able to appease God by means of the very things, which, when He came to earth, He condemned – things such as fine buildings, gilded ornaments, decorations and paintings. But, if they had rightly understood what God has said of human offerings in a certain passage – that
“the sacrifice of God is a troubled spirit: a broken and contrite heart, O God, shalt thou not despise” – and again, in another passage, what Saint Paul has said – that “ye are the temple of the living God, in which He will dwell” – if they had rightly heard these words, I say, they would have taken pains to adorn their conscience while they were yet alive. They would not have waited till a time when man can do neither good nor evil. Nor would they have done what is even worse and placed upon those who remain the burden of dispensing their alms to those upon whom, during their lifetime, they did not even deign to look. But He who reads men’s hearts will not be deceived, and He will judge them not only according to their works, but according to the faith and charity that they have shown towards Him.’
‘Why is it, then,’ said Geburon, ‘that the Franciscans and Mendicants talk of nothing else when a man’s dying but of how we ought to make bequests to their monasteries, with the assurance that they will send us to Paradise whether we want or not?’
‘What, Geburon!’ broke in Hircan. ‘Have you forgotten your story about the Franciscans, that you’re asking how men like that can possibly lie? I’ll tell you, as far as I’m concerned, there’s no one on this earth tells lies like they do. It may be that those who speak for the good of their community as a whole aren’t to be criticized; but there are some who forget their vow of poverty in order to satisfy their own greed.’
‘Hircan,’ said Nomerfide, ‘it sounds to me as if you have a particular instance in mind. Will you tell us about it, if it’s worthy of the ladies and gentlemen here?’
‘Certainly,’ he replied, ‘although it distresses me to have to talk about these people. I think they belong with those Virgil was referring to when he said to Dante, “Let us not speak of these; but look and pass.” But to show you that they don’t put aside their passions when they relinquish their worldly attire, I’ll tell you what happened.’
The Heptameron Page 48
