[The King asking the Young Lord to join his Banquet]
TALE LXIII.
A gentleman’s refusal of an amour that was sought after by
all his comrades, was imputed to him as great virtue, and
his wife loved him and esteemed him in consequence far more
than before. (1)
In the city of Paris there lived four girls, of whom two were sisters, and such was their beauty, youth and freshness, that they were run after by all the gallants. A gentleman, however, who at that time held the office of Provost of Paris (2) from the King, seeing that his master was young, of an age to desire such company, so cleverly contrived matters with all four of the damsels that each, thinking herself intended for the King, agreed to what the aforesaid Provost desired. This was that they should all of them be present at a feast to which he invited his master.
1 This story, omitted by Boaistuau, was included in
Gruget’s edition of the Heptameron.—L.
2 This is John de la Barre, already alluded to in Tale I.
The Journal d’un Bourgeois de Paris tells us that he was
born in Paris of poor parents, and became a favourite of
Francis I., who appointed him Bailiff of the capital,
without requiring him to pay any of the dues attaching to
the office. From the roll of the royal household for 1522,
we also find that he was then a gentleman of the bed chamber
with 1200 livres salary, master of the wardrobe (a post
worth 200 livres) and governor of the pages, for the board
and clothing of whom he received 5000 livres annually. In
1526 he became Provost as well as Bailiff of Paris, the two
offices then being amalgamated. He was further created Count
of Etampes, and acquired the lordship of Veretz, best
remembered by its associations with the murder of Paul Louis
Courier. La Barre fought at Pavia, was taken prisoner with
the King, and remained his constant companion during his
captivity. Several letters of his, dating from this period
and of great historical interest, are still extant; some of
them have been published by Champollion-Figeac (Captivité
de François Ier) and Génin (Lettres de Marguerite, &c).
Under date 1533 (o. s.) the “Bourgeois de Paris” writes in
his Journal: “At the beginning of March there died in
Paris, at the house of Monsieur Poncher, Monsieur le Prévost
de Paris, named de La Barre.... The King was then in Paris,
at his chateau of the Louvre, and there was great pomp at
the obsequies; and he was borne to his lordship of Veretz,
near Tours, that he might be buried there.” Numerous
particulars concerning La Barre will also be found in M. de
Laborde’s Comptes des Bâtiments du Roi au XVIeme Siècle.—
L. and Ed.
He told the latter his plan, which was approved both by the Prince and by two other great personages of the Court, all three agreeing together to share in the spoil.
While they were looking for a fourth comrade, there arrived a handsome and honourable lord who was ten years younger than the others. He was invited to the banquet, but although he accepted with a cheerful countenance, in his heart he had no desire for it. For on the one part he had a wife who was the mother of handsome children, and with whom he lived in great happiness, and in such peacefulness that on no account would he have had her suspect evil of him. And on the other hand he was the lover of one of the handsomest ladies of her time in France, whom he loved and esteemed so greatly that all other women seemed to him ugly beside her.
In his early youth, before he was married, he had found it impossible to gaze upon and associate with other women, however beautiful they might be; for he took more delight in gazing upon his sweetheart, and in perfectly loving her, than in having all that another might have given him.
This lord, then, went to his wife and told her secretly of the enterprise that his master had in hand, saying that he would rather die than do what he had promised. For (he told her) just as there was no living man whom he would not venture to attack in anger, although he would rather die than commit a causeless and wilful murder unless his honour compelled him to it; even so, unless driven by extreme love, such as may serve to blind virtuous men, he would rather die than break his marriage vow to gratify another.
On hearing these words of his, and finding that so much honour dwelt in one so young, his wife loved and esteemed him more than she had ever done before, and inquired how he thought he might best excuse himself, since Princes often frown on those who do not praise what they like.
“I have always heard,” he replied, “that a wise man has a journey or a sickness in his sleeve for use in time of need. I have therefore resolved that I will feign a grievous sickness four or five days beforehand, and in this matter your countenance may render me true service.”
“Tis a worthy and holy hypocrisy,” said his wife, “and I will not fail to serve you with the saddest face I can command; for he who can avoid offending God and angering the Prince is fortunate indeed.”
As it was resolved, so was it done, and the King was very sorry to hear from the wife of her husband’s sickness. This, however, lasted no long time; for, on account of certain business which arose, the King disregarded his pleasure to attend to his duty, and betook himself away from Paris.
However, one day, remembering their unfinished undertaking, he said to the young lord:—
“We were very foolish to leave so suddenly without seeing the four girls who are declared to be the fairest in my kingdom.”
“I am very glad,” replied the young lord, “that you failed in the matter, for I was in great fear that, by reason of my sickness, I should be the only one to miss so pleasant an adventure.”
By reason of this answer the King never suspected the dissimulation of the young lord, who was thenceforward loved by his wife more dearly than he had ever been before.
Hereupon Parlamente began to laugh, and could not hold from saying—
“He would have loved his wife better if he had done this for love of her alone. But in any case he is worthy of great praise.”
“It seems to me,” said Hircan, “that it is no great merit in a man to keep his chastity for love of his wife, inasmuch as there are many reasons which in a manner compel him to do so. In the first place, God commands it; his marriage vow binds him to it, and, further, surfeited nature is not liable to temptation or desire as necessity is. But when the unfettered love that a man bears towards a mistress of whom he has no delight, and no other happiness save that of seeing her and speaking with her, and from whom he often receives harsh replies—when this love is so loyal and steadfast that nothing can ever make it change, I say that such chastity is not simply praiseworthy but miraculous.”
“‘Tis no miracle in my opinion,” said Oisille, “for when the heart is plighted, nothing is impossible to the body.”
“True,” said Hircan; “to bodies which have become those of angels.”
“I do not speak only of those,” said Oisille, “who by the grace of God are wholly transformed into Himself, but of the grosser spirits that we see here below among men. And, if you give heed, you will find that those who have set their hearts and affections upon seeking after the perfection of the sciences, have forgotten not only the lust of the flesh, but even the most needful matters, such as food and drink; for so long as the soul is stirred within the body, so long does the flesh continue as though insensible. Thence comes it that those who love handsome, honourable and virtuous women have such happiness of spirit in seeing them and speaking with them, that the flesh is lulled in all its desires. Those who cannot feel this happiness are the carnally-minded, who, wrapped in their exceeding fatness, cannot tell whether they have a soul or not. But, when the body is in subjection to the spirit, it is as though heedless of the failings of the flesh, and the beliefs of such persons may render them insensible of the same. I knew a gentleman who, to show that he loved his mistress more dearly than did any other man, proved it to all his comrades by holding his bare fingers in the flame of a candle. And then, with his eyes fixed upon his mistress, he remained firm until he had burned himself to the bone, and yet said that he had felt no hurt.”
“Methinks,” said Geburon, “that the devil whose martyr he was ought to have made a St. Lawrence of him; for there are few whose love-flame is hot enough to keep them from fearing that of the smallest taper. But if a lady had suffered me to endure so much hurt for her sake, I should either have sought a rich reward or else have taken my love away from her.”
“So,” said Parlamente, “you would have your hour after the lady had had hers? That was what was done by a gentleman of the neighbourhood of Valencia in Spain, whose story was told to me by a captain, a right worthy man.”
“I pray you, madam,” said Dagoucin, “take my place and tell it us, for I am sure that it must be a good one.”
“This story, ladies,” said Parlamente, “will teach you both to think twice when you are inclined to give a refusal and to lay aside the thought that the present will always continue; and so, knowing that it is subject to mutation, you will have a care for the time to come.”
[The Lady Swooning in the Arms of the Gentleman of Valencia who had become a Monk]
TALE LXIV.
After a lady had for the space of five or six years made
trial of the love that a certain gentleman bore her, she
desired to have a still stronger proof of it, and reduced
him to such despair that he turned monk, on which account
she was not able to win him back again when she would fain
have done so.
In the city of Valencia there lived a gentleman, who for the space of five or six years had loved a lady so perfectly that the honour and conscience of neither of them had taken any hurt; for his intent was to have her as his wife, and this was reasonable, seeing that he was handsome, rich and of good descent. But, before he became her lover, he first inquired concerning her own mind, whereupon she declared herself willing to marry according to the counsels of her kinsfolk. The latter, being come together for the purpose, deemed the marriage a very reasonable one provided that the maiden was herself disposed to it; but she—whether because she thought to do better or because she wished to hide her love for him—-made some difficulty, and the company separated, not without regret at having failed to conclude a match so well suited to both parties.
The most grieved of all was the poor gentleman, who would have borne his misfortune with patience had he thought that the fault lay with the kinsfolk and not with her; but he knew the truth, and the knowledge was to him worse than death. So, without speaking to his sweetheart or to any other person, he withdrew to his own house, and, after setting his affairs in order, betook himself to a solitary spot, where he strove to forget his love and change it wholly to that love of our Lord which were truly a higher duty than the other.
During this time he received no tidings of his mistress or her kindred, and he therefore resolved that, since he had failed to obtain the happiest life he could hope for, he would choose the most austere and disagreeable that he could imagine. With this sad intent, which might well have been called despair, he went and became a monk in the monastery of St. Francis. This monastery was not far from the dwellings of divers of his kinsfolk, who, on hearing of his desperate condition, did all that in them lay to hinder his purpose; but this was so firmly rooted in his heart that it was not possible to turn him from it.
Nevertheless, as the source of his distemper was known to them, they determined to seek the cure, and so repaired to her who was the cause of his sudden devoutness. She was greatly astonished and grieved by this mischance, for, in refusing for a time, she had thought only to test his affection, not to lose it for ever. Seeing now the evident risk that she ran of doing this last, she sent him a letter, which, ill-translated, was as follows:—
“Since love, if tested not full needfully,
Steadfast and faithful is not shown to be,
By length of time my heart would that assay
Whereon itself was set to love alway—
To wit, a husband with that true love filled
Such as no lapsing time has ever killed.
This, then, was the sole reason that I drew
My kin to hinder for a year or two
That closest tie which lasts till life is not,
And whereby woe is oftentimes begot.
Yet sought I not to have you wholly sent
Away; such was in no wise my intent,
For none save you could I have e’er adored
Or looked to as my husband and my lord.
But woe is me, what tidings reach mine ear!
That you, to lead the cloistered life austere,
Are gone with speech to none; whereat the pain
That ever holds me, now can brook no rein,
But forces me mine own estate to slight
For that which yours aforetime was of right;
To seek him out who once sought me alone,
And win him who myself has sometimes won.
Nay then, my love, life of the life in me,
For loss of whom I fain would cease to be,
Turn hither, graciously, those eyes of pain
And trace those wandering footsteps back again.
Leave the grey robe and its austerity,
Come back and taste of that felicity
Which often you desired, and which to-day
Time has nor slain, nor swept away.
For you alone I’ve kept myself; and I,
Lacking your presence, cannot choose but die.
Come back then; in your sweetheart have belief,
And for past memories find cool relief
In holy marriage-ties. Ah! then, my dear,
To me, not to your pride give ready ear,
And rest of this assured, I had no thought
To give, sweetheart, to you offence in aught,
But only yearned your faithfulness to prove
And then to make you happy with my love.
But now that through this trial, free from scathe,
Are come your steadfastness and patient faith,
And all that loyal love to me is known,
Which at the last has made me yours alone,
Come, my beloved, take what is your due
And wholly yield to me, as I to you!”
This letter, brought by a friend of hers with every remonstrance that it was possible to make, was received and read by the gentleman friar with such sadness of countenance, such sighs and such tears, that it seemed as though he would drown and burn the poor epistle. But he made no reply to it, except to tell the messenger that the mortification of his exceeding passion had cost him so dear as to have taken from him both the wish to live and the fear to die. He therefore requested her who had been the cause of this, that since she had not chosen to satisfy his passionate longings, she would, now that he was rid of them, abstain from tormenting him, and rest content with the evil which was past. For that evil he could find no remedy but the choice of an austere life, which by continual penance might bring him to forget his grief, and, by fasts and disciplines, subdue his body, till the thought of death should be to him but a sovereign consolation. Above all, he begged that he might never hear of her, since he found the mere remembrance of her name a purgatory not to be endured.
The gentleman went back with this mournful reply, and reported it to the maiden who did not hear it without intolerable sorrow. But Love, which will not suffer the spirit utterly to fail, gave her the thought that, if she could see him, her words and presence might be of more effect than the writing. She therefore, with her father and the nearest of her kin, went to the monastery where he abode. She had left nothing in her box that might set off her beauty, for she felt sure that, could he but once look at her and hear her, the fire that had so long dwelt in both their hearts must of necessity be kindled again in greater strength than before.
Coming thus into the monastery towards the end of vespers, she sent for him to come to her in a chapel that was in the cloister. He, knowing not who it was that sought him, went in all ignorance to the sternest battle in which he had ever been. When she saw him so pale and wan that she could hardly recognise him, yet filled with grace, in no whit less winning than of yore, Love made her stretch out her arms to embrace him, whilst her pity at seeing him in such a plight so enfeebled her heart, that she sank swooning to the floor.
The poor monk, who was not void of brotherly charity, lifted her up and set her upon a seat in the chapel. Although he had no less need of aid than she had, he feigned to be unaware of her passion, and so strengthened his heart in the love of God against the opportunities now present with him, that, judging by his countenance, he seemed not to know what was actually before him. Having recovered from her weakness, she turned upon him her beautiful, piteous eyes, which were enough to soften a rock, and began to utter all such discourse as she believed apt to draw him from the place in which he now was. He replied as virtuously as he was able; but at last, finding that his heart was being softened by his sweetheart’s abundant tears, and perceiving that Love, the cruel archer whose pains he long had known, was ready with his golden dart to deal him fresh and more deadly wounds, he fled both from Love and from his sweetheart, like one whose only resource lay, indeed, in flight.
When he was shut up in his room, not desiring to let her go without some settlement of the matter, he wrote her a few words in Spanish, which seem to me so excellent in their matter that I would not by translating them mar their grace. These were brought to her by a little novice, who found her still in the chapel and in such despair that, had it been lawful, she too would have remained there and turned friar. But when she saw the words, which were these—
“Volvete don venesti, anima mia,
Que en las tristas vidas es la mia,” (1)
she knew that all hope was gone, and she resolved to follow the advice of him and her friends, and so returned home, there to lead a life as melancholy as that of her lover in his monastery was austere.
1 “Return whence thou earnest, my soul,
for among the sad lives is mine.”’
“You see, ladies, what vengeance the gentleman took upon his harsh sweetheart, who, thinking to try him, reduced him to such despair that, when she would have regained him, she could not do so.”
“I am sorry,” said Nomerfide, “that he did not lay aside his gown and marry her. It would, I think, have been a perfect marriage.”
“In good sooth,” said Simontault, “I think he was very wise. Anyone who well considers what marriage is will deem it no less grievous than a monkish life. Moreover, being so greatly weakened by fasts and abstinence, he feared to take upon him a burden of that kind which lasts all through life.”
“Methinks,” said Hircan, “she wronged so feeble a man by tempting him to marriage, for ‘tis too much for the strongest man alive; but had she spoken to him of love, free from any obligation but that of the will, there is no friar’s cord that would not have been untied. However, since she sought to draw him out of purgatory by offering him hell, I think that he was quite right to refuse her, and to let her feel the pain that her own refusal had cost him.”
“By my word,” said Ennasuite, “there are many who, thinking to do better than their fellows, do either worse or else the very opposite of what they desire.”
“Truly,” said Geburon, “you remind me—though, indeed, the matter is not greatly to the point—of a woman who did the opposite of what she desired, and so caused a great uproar in the church of St. John of Lyons.”
“I pray you,” said Parlamente, “take my place and tell us about it.”
“My story,” said Geburon, “will not be so long or so piteous as the one we have heard from Parlamente.”
