The young man replied: ‘I am most pleased that you were unable to attend, for I was afraid that through my illness I alone would miss such an excellent opportunity.’
From these words it never occurred to the King that he was dissembling. And the young lord was loved more dearly by his wife than ever before.
*
At this point Parlamente burst out laughing, and could not resist saying: ‘He’d have shown even greater love for his wife, if he’d done what he did for her sake alone. All the same, whatever the reasons, what he did was highly praiseworthy.’
‘In my opinion,’ said Hircan, ‘there’s nothing very praise worthy about a man keeping his chastity out of love for his wife. For there are so many reasons why he should keep his chastity that he is almost compelled to do so. First, God commands it, secondly, his marriage vow binds him, and then fully satisfied natural appetites, unlike unfulfilled needs, are not in any way subject to temptation and craving. But consider the sort of love that a man gives freely to a lady who grants no favours in return, indeed grants no satisfaction at all other than permitting him to see her, speak to her and, more often than not, receive a sour reply for his pains. If a man’s love for a woman in those circumstances is so unswervingly loyal that right through the most tempting opportunities it never wavers – then I say that such chastity is not just praiseworthy, it’s nothing short of miraculous!’
‘It is no miracle,’ said Oisille, ‘for when the heart is true, nothing is impossible to the body.’
‘For bodies already transformed into angels, maybe!’ Hircan replied.
‘I do not only mean the bodies of those who through God’s grace have been transmuted into Him,’ she went on, ‘but also those bodies that belong even to the basest spirits we see here on earth among men. If you look closely at the matter, you will find that those who have given their heart and affections to the pursuit of the perfection of knowledge, have not only forgotten the pleasures of the flesh, but even the most basic needs, such as eating and drinking. For, as long as the soul is by affection within its body, the flesh remains as if it were insensible. Thus it is that those men who love beautiful, honourable and virtuous women find such contentment in seeing them and hearing them speak. Thus it is that their minds are so contended that the flesh finds peace and is rid of all desires. Those who cannot experience such contentment are men of carnal natures, who, being too much enveloped in their flesh, do not even know whether they have a soul or not. But when the body is subject to the spirit it is almost insensible to the imperfections of the flesh, so much so that the strong conviction of such people may render them insensible. I once knew a man of noble birth, who, in order to demonstrate that he had loved his lady more deeply than anyone else, had given proof to his comrades by holding a candle in his bare fingers [for three whole nights]. As he did so, he fixed his gaze upon his beloved, and held firm, until his flesh was burnt away to the bone. Moreover, he said that he had felt no pain.’
‘It seems to me,’ said Geburon, ‘that the devil who martyred him ought to have made him a second Saint Lawrence! There are very few men so consumed with the fire of passion that they do not fear even the smallest candle. If a lady made me endure so much for her sake, I’d demand adequate compensation, or I’d withdraw my affections!’
‘So,’ said Parlamente, ‘you would insist on having your moment, once your lady had had hers? That sounds rather like a certain nobleman from Valencia in Spain about whom I was once told a story by a Knight Commander, a thoroughly worthy man.’
‘Then may I ask you to take my place,’ said Dagoucin, ‘and to tell us your tale? For I am sure that it will be a good one.’
‘This, Ladies,’ began Parlamente, ‘is a tale that will teach you to think twice before you refuse something. It will teach you not to place trust in the present, hoping that things will remain the same for ever, [but] to recognize that the present is in constant change and to have thought for the future.’
STORY SIXTY-FOUR
In the city of Valencia there was a man of gentle birth who for five or six years had loved a lady so perfectly and so well that his honour and conscience, and the honour and conscience of his beloved, remained intact. For his intention was to take her as his wife – an entirely reasonable ambition, for he was handsome, rich and of good family. This being so, he did not enter her service and pay court to her, without first seeking out her own wishes in the matter. She said that she would agree to the marriage subject to the desires of her friends [and relations]. They all assembled to discuss it, and found the marriage a very reasonable proposition, [provided that the girl herself was in agreement.] But the girl then started finding all kinds of objections, perhaps because she hoped for a better match, or perhaps to hide the love she felt for the man. Whatever the reason, the result was that the assembled friends and relations had to depart, regretting that they had been unable to bring what they knew to be an advantageous marriage on both sides to a satisfactory conclusion. The most distraught was of course the poor suitor, who would have been better able to bear the rejection if it had come from the family rather than from the girl. But that was the fact of the matter, and knowing it made his suffering worse than death. Without speaking a word to her or to anyone else, he went home and shut himself away. Then, after making a few necessary arrangements, he went away to an isolated spot and did his utmost to forget his love. He converted it entirely into the love of Our Lord, a love to which he was more beholden. Throughout this entire time he heard nothing either from his beloved or from her relatives. So, since he now felt that he had lost all prospect of leading the happy life he had hoped for, he resolved to enter upon the most austere and difficult way of life he could imagine. And, in this sorry state of mind – it could be called despair – he went and entered a Franciscan monastery which was situated not far from where several of the girl’s relatives lived. As soon as they learned of his desperation, they spared no efforts to try to restrain him, but his resolve was so firm that there was no possible means of turning him from it. They knew well what had brought about his malady, and in their search for the cure, they turned to the young woman who was the cause of this sudden access of devotion. She was overcome with sorrow when she heard about the unfortunate turn of events. She had thought that a temporary rejection would serve merely to test the sincerity of his intentions. It had not entered her mind that she would lose him for ever – a possibility that she could plainly see was imminent. So she sent him a letter, which, badly translated, ran like this:
Man’s love can never be approved
Unless its truth be truly proved
And so I wished to test by Time
That thing which I desired as mine –
To wit a husband good and true,
Who should not fail his whole life through.
So urgently I begged and prayed
That yet a while should be delayed
This bond that unto death must reign
And doth to many bring great pain.
My true desire was your affection,
It was not a real rejection!
For no one else could I adore
As lord and master ever more!
Oh wretched Fate! Now have I learned
That you have taciturnly turned
Unto the cloister cold and bleak.
It rends my heart and I must speak,
My tongue must sing a different song,
The song you sang and did no wrong,
To seek the one who come and sought,
To catch the one who has me caught.
My love, my life, if you depart,
I cannot live with broken heart,
So turn again, Alas! Alack!
Lest it’s too late, turn back, turn back!
Turn from the robe so rough and rude,
Turn back to her you long have wooed
And take the bliss that you desire,
For Time stills not nor lulls Love’s fire.
To you alone
myself I give,
For without you I cannot live.
So turn again, and if you care
To seal the memories we share,
Then take me, tie the marriage knot,
And trust in me alone. Trust not
The dictates of your stricken mind.
’T was not my thought to be unkind
But happiness and love the best
To grant you when you’d passed the test.
And now you’ve truly demonstrated
Faith and love, though long you waited
And constancy shines bright and true,
Myself I wholly give to you,
So take me, love, take what is thine,
As I am yours, so you be mine!
This epistle, along with all other conceivable exhortations, was delivered by a friend. As the gentleman, now a Franciscan friar, read the letter, a deep sorrow crept over his face. He sighed ardent sighs enough to consume the piteous words and wept tears enough to drown them in their flood. He made no reply, except to tell the messenger that the mortification of his extreme passion had cost him so dear that the will to live had left him, and that he no longer feared to die. To her who was the cause of his woe he sent word that, since she had not wished to gratify his passionate desires, she should not, now that he was free from them, seek to torture him further, but should content herself with what pain she had already occasioned him. His only remedy was to choose a life so austere that continual penance allowed him to forget his sorrows, to choose a life of fasting and chastisement which so weakened the body that the thought of death was his supreme consolation. Above all, he begged her, let him never hear from her again, for the mere memory of her name was an unbearable Purgatory.
The messenger returned with this sad reply. The chagrin she felt when she received it was almost too much to bear. But Love does not allow the spirit to be utterly cast down, and she conceived the notion that if she could only see him, she would have more effect on him by speaking to him face to face than she had had by writing to him. So, accompanied by her father and her closest relatives, she went to the monastery. She spared no artifice to enhance her beauty, assuring herself that if he could but see her and hear her speak, the fire that had so long smouldered in both their breasts must inevitably be rekindled stronger than ever. It was almost the end of vespers when she arrived at the monastery, and she waited in a little chapel in the cloisters until he arrived. He had no idea who had called to see him. Unforewarned, he was about to enter the hardest battle of his life. He appeared, pale and worn, almost beyond recognition, yet full of a certain grace that rendered him no less worthy to be loved than before. Love overcame her, and she opened her arms to embrace him. But so overwhelmed was she, so sick at heart, to see him in the state he was, that she collapsed and fainted. The poor friar, who was not bereft of fraternal charity, lifted her up and placed her on a bench in the chapel. In reality, he was as much in need of help as she was. He affected not to notice the evidence of the girl’s passion and fortified his heart in the love of his God against the great opportunity now at his fingertips. He seemed unaware of what was going on before his very eyes. When she recovered from her faint, she looked at him with her beautiful eyes, full of pity, and sufficient to soften the hardest rock. She began to speak, saying everything she could think of which seemed likely to persuade him to leave the monastery. And he replied, in the most virtuous terms he could devise. But eventually the poor friar [felt] his heart softened by the tears poured forth by his lady. It was as if he saw Love himself, that heartless bowman, at whose hand he had so long suffered, draw his golden dart, ready to inflict a new and yet more deadly wound. Flight was his only recourse. He fled from Love, he fled from his beloved.
Once he was back in the seclusion of his room, he was reluctant to let her depart without a more fitting end. He wrote a few words in Spanish – words which seem to me so full of meaning that I prefer not to diminish their grace by translating them. They were taken to her by a young novice, who found her still sitting there, sunk in the depths of despair. Indeed, had it been legally possible, I believe she would have stayed there and become a Franciscan herself. But she opened the note and read:
Volvete don venesti, anima mia,
Que en las tristas vidas es la mia.*
At this she realized that all hope was gone. She resolved to follow the advice of her friends. And so to her own house she returned, there to lead a life as melancholy as the life now led by her cloistered suitor.
*
‘So, Ladies, you see,’ concluded Parlamente, ‘how the man wrought revenge on his harsh lady. She had meant to try him out, but threw him into a state of despair, with the result that when she wanted him back, it was too late.’
‘I’m sorry he never abandoned the monk’s habit to marry her,’ said Nomerfide. ‘I’m sure it would have been a perfect marriage.’
[‘In all truth,’ said Simontaut, ‘I think he was very wise. Anyone who has gone into the burdens of marriage] will agree that the matrimonial state is every bit as irksome as the austere religious life. This man was already weakened by abstinence and fasting, and he was afraid of taking on a burden which would be lifelong!’
‘I think it was wrong of her,’ said Hircan, ‘to tempt him with marriage. That’s too much to bear, even for the strongest man in the world. On the other hand, if she had proposed a liaison free of any obligation, other than that voluntarily entered into, there’s no cord that could not have been unloosed, [no knot that could not have been untied.] As it was, she was offering Hell as an alternative to Purgatory, so in my view he was quite right to reject her and make her feel what he had felt when she had rejected him.’
‘It is indeed true,’ said Ennasuite, ‘that there are many people who, thinking they can do better than others, end up worse off or with the opposite of what they wanted.’
‘It’s not altogether to the point,’ said Geburon, ‘but what you say reminds me of a certain woman who ended up with something she hadn’t intended. It caused a great stir in the church of Saint John in Lyons.’
‘Then take my place, I beg you,’ said Parlamente, ‘and tell us the story.’
‘It will not be as long,’ said Geburon, ‘nor will it be as sad, as the tale told by Parlamente.’
STORY SIXTY-FIVE
In the church of Saint John in Lyons there is a rather dark side chapel. Inside this chapel there is a stone tomb, on which there are sculpted life-size figures. Around the bottom of the tomb there are figures of soldiers in sleeping postures. One summer’s day a soldier was strolling about inside the church. It was very hot outside, and he suddenly felt like taking a nap. He noticed the chapel, and seeing that it was dark and cool inside, thought it would not be a bad idea to join the other figures guarding the tomb. So he went and lay down beside them. Then, while he was fast asleep, along came a devout old woman. She muttered her devotions, clutching a burning candle. When she had finished, she wanted to stick her candle on the tomb, and it happened to be the sleeping soldier who was within her reach. Thinking he was a stone statue, she placed the candle on his forehead. But the wax would not stick, so, thinking it was because the stone was cold, she tried to warm it with the flame, in order to make the candle hold. But this was no insensible statue, and it began to shout. The old woman was terrified out of her wits. ‘A miracle!’ she shrieked. ‘A miracle!’ All the people in the church came running up at once. Some went into the chapel to see the miracle. Some went and started to ring the bells. The old woman took them all to see the statue that had moved, and a lot of people had a good laugh about it. But the [priests] were not too pleased. They had already made up their minds that they should turn their tomb to account and make as much money out of it as they had from their crucifix – the one that hangs over the rood-screen and is supposed to have spoken. However, it only needed one woman’s stupidity to become known for that farce to come to an end!
*
‘If everyone recognized their stupidi
ty, they would not be thought so saintly, nor would their miracles be taken for the truth. Henceforth then, Ladies, take care which saints you offer your candles to!’
‘It’s worth noting,’ observed Hircan, ‘that whatever the circumstances, women always have to do wrong!’
‘Is it doing wrong,’ asked Nomerfide, ‘to place candles on a tomb?’
‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘when you burn men’s foreheads with them! You can’t call a good action good if it turns out bad. Just imagine, the poor woman thought she was giving God a magnificent present by offering a bit of a candle!’
‘I do not look to the value of the present,’ said Oisille, ‘but to the heart that presents it. It may be that this good woman had greater love of God than those who light huge torches, for, as the Gospel says, she gave of her penury.’
‘Even so,’ said Saffredent, ‘I do not think that the stupidity of women is pleasing to God, who is supreme wisdom. For although it is true that He looks with favour on simplicity, I note from my reading of Scripture that He scorns ignorance. And if He bids us be as simple as the dove, He also bids us none the less strongly to be as wise as the serpent.’
‘For my part,’ said Oisille, ‘I do not think a woman ignorant for bringing her lighted candle before God, if she does so to make amends, kneeling upon the ground, taper in hand, before her sovereign Lord, confessing to Him her sins, begging with firm hope for mercy and salvation.’
‘Would to God,’ said Dagoucin, ‘that everybody acted with the same intention as you. But I fear that such is not the case with these poor stupid women.’
But Oisille replied: ‘The women who are the least able to talk about it are often the ones who feel more deeply the love and will of God. For this reason one should not judge anyone but oneself.’
‘There’s nothing very out of the ordinary about waking up a sleeping soldier,’ said Ennasuite, laughing. ‘There are lowborn women who’ve done better than that – some have scared the highest princes of the realm, without putting burning candles on their heads!’
The Heptameron Page 53
